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THE  FATHER 


The  Father 

by 
J^atharine  J-folland  ^Brown 


CttJ><l&n 


New  York 

THE  JOHN  DAY  COMPANY 

1928 


928,   BY  THE  WOMAN'S   HOME   COMPANION 
COPYRIGHT,    1928,  BY   KATHARINE   HOLLAND   BROWN 
FIRST   PUBLISHED,   NOVEMBER,    1 928 


PRINTED    IN   THE    U.  S.  A. 

FOR   THE   JOHN    DAY    COMPANY,    INC. 

BY  THE    QUINN   &   BODEN  COMPANY,    INC.,   RAHWAY,    N.   J. 


ABOUT    THE    AUTHOR 

KATHARINE  HOLLAND  BROWN  was  born  in 
Alton,  Illinois.  She  was  graduated  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Michigan,  where  she  was  an  honor  student  and 
was  elected  to  Phi  Beta  Kappa.  Following  her  graduation 
Miss  Brown  taught  in  the  Quincy  High  School  for  two 
years  and  then  engaged  in  newspaper  and  magazine 
writing. 

Since  then  she  has  contributed  many  short  stories  and 
serial  stories  to  the  magazines  and  is  the  author  of  several 
novels:  Diana,  A  Romance  of  the  Icarian  Community; 
Dawn;  Philip  fa  at  Halcyon;  The  Messenger;  White 
Roses ;  Uncertain  Irene;  Hallowell  Partnership;  Wages 
of  Honor ;  The  Touchstone;  and  a  collection  of  Short 
Stories  from  the  Bible. 

In  1924  Miss  Brown  received  an  honorary  M.A.  de- 
gree from  the  University  of  Michigan. 

Her  permanent  home  is  in  Quincy,  Illinois,  although 
she  lives  at  Orlando,  Florida,  a  great  part  of  the  time. 


THE  FATHER 


CHAPTER    ONE 

IT  was  Sunday  morning.  No  doubt  about  that.  It  looked 
like  Sunday,  all  tranquil  autumn  sunshine,  and  soft 
breezes,  and  mellow  golden  air.  It  sounded  like  Sunday,  its 
sweet  hours  measured  by  the  music  of  far  bells.  And  as 
little  Thomas  observed,  and  wrinkled  his  fat  nose  wist- 
fully, it  smelled  like  Sunday.  To  be  sure,  it  would  seem 
that  Thomas  had  shipped  enough  fuel  at  breakfast  for  the 
whole  day's  cruise.  Baked  beans,  hot  and  savory  from  Satur- 
day night  in  the  brick  oven,  brown  bread,  so  tender  that  you 
must  eat  it  with  a  spoon,  after  plastering  it  with  Grand- 
aunt  Celestia's  sacrosanct  quince  jam,  brought  down  with 
ceremony  from  the  sealed  mysterious  cupboard  of  her  cot- 
tage up  Stafford  Hill;  and  finally  a  solid  ballast  of  dough- 
nuts. But  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1850,  the  storage  ca- 
pacity of  a  five-year-old  boy  was  a  thing  of  wonder,  even 
as  to-day. 

Adoniram,  his  eldest  brother,  gave  him  a  rebuking 
glance,  then  bent  his  skinny  shoulders  over  his  Old  Testa- 
ment. Past  the  freckles  that  enveloped  him,  even  as  a  small 
god  in  a  cloud,  you  caught  glimpses  of  a  bony  sedate  little 
face,  brown  eyes,  a  sober  mouth.  Adoniram  was  growing 
up.  He  did  not  find  it  a  cheering  process.  When  at  the  age 
of  nine  you  are  required  to  be  the  mark  and  pattern  for 
two  obstreperous  younger  brothers  life  becomes  a  heavy 
task.  Little  Thomas  wasn't  so  awful,  he  reflected;  but  when 
it  came  to  being  responsible  for  Seth,  Seth  who  was  born, 
so  Aunty  declared,  with  both  feet  in  the  milk-pail  .   .   .    ! 

He  sighed,  chewed  his  tongue  reflectively,  and  addressed 
himself  to  his  text. 


4  THE    FATHER 

— "And  the  children  of  Israel  dwelt  among  the  Ca- 
naanites,  Hittites  and  Amorites,  and  Perizzites  and  Hivites 
and  Jebusites " 

He  took  a  long  breath,  pushed  on. 

— "And  the  children  of  Israel  did  evil — and  served  Baa- 
lim and  the  groves " 

"Therefore  the  anger  of  the  Lord  was  hot  against  Israel, 
and  he  sold  them  into  the  hand  of  Chushan-Rishathaim, 
king  of  Mesopotamia;  and  the  children  of  Israel  served 
Chushan-Rishathaim  eight  years " 

A  spark  of  interest  kindled  in  Adoniram's  eyes. 

"Father!  Say,  Father,  did  you  know  the  children  of  Israel 
got  sold  once,  to  a  mean  old  king?" 

Father  looked  up  from  his  new  Atlantic  World, 

"What  are  you  reading,  Adoniram?" 

"Judges,  third  chapter.  Yes,  sir,  and  I'll  bet  old  Chushan 
made  slaves  out  of  them,  too.  Just  like  the  slaves  we  got, 
right  here  in  America." 

Now,  one  moment  before,  Father  had  sat  there,  so  slim 
and  silent  and  aloof,  from  young  silvered  crest  to  gleaming 
morocco  boots  the  very  portrait  of  a  sedate  New  England 
gentleman.  But  now  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  lordly  head 
flung  high,  his  eyes  began  to  flame.  His  tall  black  stock  had 
been  tied  so  firmly,  it  seemed  only  a  convulsion  of  nature 
could  budge  it.  But  at  the  mere  word  "slaves"  it  reared 
erect,  jumped  under  his  left  ear.  A  barometer,  that  stock. 

"True,  my  son.  In  its  day,  every  nation  has  staggered 
under  the  monstrous  burden  of  slavery.  Even  our  own 
free  world  still  drags  her  chains.  If  I  and  my  generation 
cannot  throw  off  this  crushing  weight,  you  and  yours  will 
have  to  carry  that  load." 

Deep  water  for  Adoniram.  He  sighed  reflectively,  read 
on. 

"And  Sisera  gathered  together  his  chariots,  even  nine 


THE    FATHER  5 

hundred  chariots  of  iron.  ...  So  Barak  went  down  from 
Mount  Tabor,  and  ten  thousand  men  after  him.  .  .  .  And 
all  the  host  of  Sisera  fell  upon  the  edge  of  the  sword;  and 
there  was  not  a  man  left " 

"Gosh !  Must  have  been  a  bully  fight." 

"Adoniram!"  With  hardly  a  rustle,  Aunt  Celestia  had 
entered  the  room.  She  stood  before  the  shocked  Adoniram 
in  flounced  black  bombazine  and  gigantic  hearse-plumed 
bonnet,  and  all  her  Sabbath  wrath.  "What  language !  What 
an  example  to  your  younger  brothers!" 

Adoniram  humped.  He  appeared  to  shrink  into  himself 
like  a  harassed  little  snail.  Father  opened  his  mouth,  then 
shut  it  again.  Train  up  the  child  in  the  way  he  should  go. 

At  the  same  time He  put  a  reassuring  hand  on  Adoni- 

ram's  humbled  shoulder. 

"Donny,  son,  when  we  come  home  this  afternoon,  we'll 
go  down  to  Kimball's  orchard.  Remember  that  flat  place, 
by  the  brook,  where  we  roast  our  potatoes,  for  picnics? 
We'll  call  that  the  Plain  of  Kedesh,  and  the  big  hummock 
can  be  where  the  chariots  of  Sisera  stood,  and  we'll  take 
along  all  the  clothes-pins  for  soldiers " 

"Goody,  goody!"  Seth  hurtled  in,  like  all  the  battering- 
rams  of  the  Amalekites.  He  tripped  over  Aunty's  ottoman 
and  he  crashed  into  the  center-table.  The  beaded  air-castle 
jingled,  the  waxen  pomegranates  leaped  upon  their  crystal 
throne. 

"  'Scuse  me,  Aunty.  I  forgot  it  was  Sunday." 

"Forgot  it-  was  Sunday.  I  don't  wonder.  Of  all  the  un- 
godly conversations!  Battles,  and  roasting  potatoes,  and 
clothes-pins " 

Father  wheeled  on  his  sons  with  terrifying  ferocity. 

"Put  down  your  Testaments!  Off  with  your  jackets! 
Scoot,  now!  Run  up  and  down  the  garden  till  you've  blown 
off  some  steam.  You're  boiling  over.  Out  of  here.  Travel ! " 


6  THE    FATHER 

There  was  a  smothered  whoop.  Out  the  three  shot,  like 
arrows  from  the  Israelitish  bow.  Father  remained,  the 
scapegoat.  As  usual. 

"John  Stafford,  what  has  come  into  you!  Pompering  your 
children  like  this!  Doesn't  the  Scripture  warn  you,  'Evil  is 
bound  up  in  the  heart  of  the  child '  " 

"  'Children  are  an  heritage  from  the  Lord.  Blessed  is  the 
man  who  hath  his  quiver  full.'  "  Father  fixed  his  clear  dark 
gaze  on  the  Praying  Samuel  on  the  mantelpiece.  Not  even 
the  Praying  Samuel  wore  an  aspect  more  smug. 

Aunty  sniffed. 

"  'The  rod  and  the  reproof  give  wisdom:  but  a  child  left 
to  himself  bringeth  his  mother  to  shame.'  " 

"Solomon  was  a  wise  man,  Aunty."  A  glad  light  awoke 
in  Father's  eye.  Hooray!  Here  was  the  chance  of  a  life- 
time! "But  I  cannot  feel  that  he  was  a  success  in  rearing 
children." 

"Humph.  No  more  was  David." 

Father  choked.  He  might  have  known  that  his  great-aunt 
would  have  him  there.  For  thirty  years  he  had  striven  to 
get  the  better  of  his  grim  ancient  kinswoman,  just  once.  For 
thirty  years  she  had  pricked  that  upblown  ambition,  as 
deftly  as  she  pricked  the  crusts  of  her  famous  apple-pies. 
Royal  adversary,  she  never  gloated  over  her  triumph.  In- 
stead, with  somewhat  ponderous  tact,  she  invariably 
changed  the  subject. 

Now  she  turned  to  the  tall  eagle  mirror,  and  gazed 
disapprovingly  at  her  dour  First  Day  grandeur,  the  mourn- 
ful cameo  at  her  withered  throat. 

"I  mistrust  I  ought  to  give  Mercy  Rose  my  tombstone." 

"Why?  Mercy  is  barely  sixteen.  Too  young  for  such 
costly  ornaments." 

"And  I'm  too  old  for  'em.  Vanities,  they  are,  for  a 
woman  seventy-four,  going  on  seventy-five.  Though  I  al- 


THE    FATHER  7 

ways  did  enjoy  it.  That  weeping  willow  sets  off  the  grave 
so  tasty."  With  shamed  fondness,  she  adjusted  the  vast  and 
doleful  gaud,  then  turned  as  a  light  step  clicked  on  the 
stairs. 

"Well,  Mercy  Rose!  High  time  you  finished  primping.,, 

"Daughter,  you  look  very  nice  and  tidy."  Father  put  out 
his  hand  to  her.  He  did  not  offer  to  caress  her.  Parents  did 
not  lavish  caresses  on  young  daughters  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  1850.  But  as  he  looked  on  her,  his  face  changed 
oddly.  A  curious  light  came  upon  it.  Perhaps  that  light  was 
the  reflection  of  the  young  shining  fairness  before  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  glow  that  comes  to  the  face  of  any  man 
when  he  looks  on  the  woman  who  gives  meaning  and  value 
to  his  life;  even  when  that  woman  is  his  own  motherless 
child. 

Now  when  you  looked  at  Mercy  Rose  all  ready  for 
church  in  her  flounced  and  snowy  dimity,  the  string  of 
frosty  seed-pearls  on  her  round  throat,  her  face  shadowed 
by  her  wreathed  and  tilting  bonnet,  little  mitted  hands  so 
primly  folded,  you  said  to  yourself,  "What  a  meek  little 
silver-gilt  saint!"  But  just  then  you  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  chin.  Softly  molded,  velvet-white,  but  a  chin.  And  as 
she  took  off  her  bonnet,  the  sun  struck  down  on  those  thick 
silvery-gold  braids,  and  woke  in  them  a  gleam  darker  than 
raw  gold,  a  smoldering  flame.  And  rather  hastily  you  re- 
vised your  first  impression. 

She  stood  a  moment  irresolute.  For  all  her  Puritan  rear- 
ing Mercy  was  regrettably  lax  at  times.  She  tripped  across 
to  her  father,  pounced  on  his  hand  and  gave  it  a  swift  de- 
fiant squeeze.  Then,  squirming  slightly  as  Aunt  Celestia's 
eye  bored  a  hole  into  her  shoulder,  she  planted  a  small 
panicky  kiss  on  his  ear. 

Aunty  scorned  to  comment  on  this  un-Sabbath-like  be- 
havior. Instead  she  turned  indignantly  away. 


8  THE    FATHER 

"Aunty  doesn't  like  that."  Father  spoke  under  his  breath. 

"No.  But  I  do."  Mercy  flashed  a  mutinous  hazel  eye  at 
him.  Aloud,  she  added:  "I  must  tie  your  stock  over,  Father. 
It's  all  skewy.  Now  we  ought  to  start.  Wherever  are  the 
little  boys?  I'll  wager  they're  all  hot  and  mussy  by  now. 
Seth!  'Doniram!  Little  Thomas!" 

The  three  appeared  as  by  magic,  agog  with  conscious 
virtue.  Not  a  grimy  face  was  to  be  seen.  Adoniram  wore  as 
always  the  burdened  aspect  of  the  head  of  a  large  and  un- 
ruly family.  Like  his  brothers  he  was  apple-cheeked  and 
hazel-eyed,  with  even  clear  features,  well  sprinkled  with 
cinnamon  freckles,  and  the  sadly  misleading  expression  of 
a  cherub.  Like  his  brothers,  too,  his  thick  fair  hair  was 
brushed  high  into  a  smooth  roach,  his  small  body  was  clad 
in  a  swallow-tailed,  brass-buttoned  jacket  of  deep  and 
lurid  blue,  his  short  legs  floundered  in  long  tight  flounced 
trousers  of  bright  yellow  nankeen.  All  three  of  them,  as 
like  as  three  peas,  were  the  stern  charge  of  Aunt  Celestia, 
the  pride  of  their  father,  and  the  anxious  treasure  of  their 
elder  sister's  heart. 

In  other  ways,  however,  the  three  were  as  absolute  a  set 
of  individualists  as  so  many  snow-crystals.  For  all  his  care- 
worn guise  Adoniram  had  a  flair  for  mischief  that  ap- 
proached genius.  Lucky  little  sinner,  he  had  long  since  dis- 
covered that  Nemesis  would  sigh  and  turn  aside  whenever 
he  put  on  what  Mercy  called  his  lonesome  look.  For  through 
his  days  Adoniram  moved  as  lonely,  declared  Father,  as  a 
poor  freckled  wild  goose  who  has  lost  his  mate.  That  wist- 
ful gaze  had  been  known  to  subdue  even  Aunt  Celestia.  He 
carried  it  before  his  most  riotous  misdeeds,  a  mystic  shield. 
Little  Thomas,  too,  possessed  an  unfailing  weapon  in  his 
croupy  cough.  In  earliest  youth  the  croup  had  all  but  cost 
him  his  life.  Nowadays  the  mere  suggestion  of  a  croupy 
gasp  would  rouse  his  father  to  instant  action,  strike  terror 


THE    FATHER  9 

to  Mercy's  heart.  One  need  not  add  that  even  a  faint  and 
unconvincing  bark  was  a  very  present  help  in  trouble.  Un- 
cannily shrewd,  Thomas  had  not  worn  out  his  alibi.  It  was 
good  for  years  to  come. 

Seth,  alas,  could  claim  no  such  spiritual  defender.  He 
stood  unshielded  before  the  tempests  of  this  world.  "Every- 
thing I  do  is  laid  to  me,"  he  once  lamented.  And  Seth 
got  into  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward.  It  was  Seth  who  ate 
too  much  gingerbread,  Seth  who  tumbled  into  the  well,  Seth 
who,  while  kneeling  at  family  worship  in  the  reverently 
darkened  parlor,  had  attempted  to  unite  the  shoestrings  of 
Adoniram  to  those  of  little  Thomas.  At  least,  such  had 
been  his  intent.  But  in  that  Egyptian  blackness  he  had 
blundered,  as  usual.  And  nobody  was  more  astonished  than 
Seth  when,  as  the  echoes  of  the  crash  died  away,  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  mistaken  the  shoestrings  of  their 
visiting  parson  for  those  of  Adoniram. 

In  the  bare  high-shouldered  meeting-house  they  sat  in  a 
decorous  row.  First  Aunty  entered,  with  some  difficulty, 
for  her  voluminous  crinoline  must  be  steered  with  skill  to 
make  the  strait  and  narrow  channel  of  the  pew  door. 
Then  the  three  boys,  then  Mercy,  then  Father.  Father 
always  closed  the  door  on  his  flock  with  the  air  of  a  patri- 
arch, but  a  jaunty  and  complacent  young  patriarch  at 
that.  Faults  in  plenty  John  Stafford  possessed,  but  according 
to  Aunty  his  worst  failing  was  his  sinful  pride  in  his 
children.  At  her  grim  predictions,  Mercy  shivered  with 
apprehension.   If   fire   should   actually  sweep   down    from 

Heaven,  to  consume  Father  and  his  arrogant  pride Oh, 

well!  That  flame  of  retribution  was  welcome  to  come  right 
along  and  consume  her,  too.  So  there! 

As  they  settled  into  their  places  a  little  breeze  passed 
over  the  congregation.  It  was  a  curious  little  breeze,  not 


10  THE    FATHER 

quite  welcoming,  not  quite  friendly.  And  the  glances  that 
went  with  it  were  almost  inimical.  Mercy  stiffened  Her 
steady  eyes  blazed. 

"IVs  all  on  account  of  Father's  editorial  in  last  month's 
Intelligence,"  she  thought,  angrily. 

That  editorial  had  roused  thousands  to  fuming  resent- 
ment. B.tterly  Mr.  Stafford  had  accused  his  state  of  hypoc- 
risy. Shame  upon  you,  men  of  Massachusetts!  You  who 
boast  that  your  State  is  the  cradle  of  freedom!  In  your  own 
greed  lies  the  very  tap  root  of  slavery.  Hold  fast  to  your 
mills,  those  looms  of  torment,  whose  cloth  is  woven  of 
blood  and  tears.  Build  your  vast  ships,  make  staunch  their 
masts,  your  ships  that  carry  so  infamous  a  cargo!" 

No  wonder  that  his  timorous  prosperous  townsfolk  had 
flinched  and  glowered  as  he  passed  by. 

"Though  that  editorial  wasn't  any  worse  than  the  way  he 
upset  everybody  last  Town  Meeting  Day." 

True.  On  Town  Meeting  Day  Father  had  jarred  Green 
River  to  its  foundation  stones.  Following  on  the  regular 
business  meeting  a  group  of  august  elders  had  debated 
among  themselves  whether  the  right  hand  of  fellowship 
should  be  held  forth  to  a  family  of  newcomers  whose  son 
had  served  a  sentence  in  Charlestown  Prison  for  man- 
slaughter. A  relentless  majority  had  held  that  the  sins  of  the 
unfortunate  should  be  visited  upon  his  kindred,  even  to 
the  third  generation.  "For  assuredly  we  dare  not  open  the 
doors  of  our  sanctuary  to  these  unhappy  townsmen,  whose 
nope  of  a  future  blessedness  is  thus  destroyed,  forever." 

Even  as  their  chairman  spoke,  up  came  Editor  Stafford. 
Respectfully  he  bowed  to  his  grim  elders,  and  stepped  for- 
ward. But,  most  injudiciously,  the  chairman  motioned  him 
back. 

"Where  do  you  stand,  Brother  Stafford?  Do  you  not 
agree  with  us,  that  our  decision  is  but  just?" 


THE    FATHER  n 

Pompously,  he  explained.  Father  listened.  His  tall  stock 
twitched  somewhat,  but  his  courteous  attention  did  not 
waver.  But  over  his  face  came  an  ominous  sweetness;  when 
he  spoke  at  last,  his  voice  was  smooth  as  cream. 

"I  see  your  viewpoint,  gentlemen.  I  would  say  that  a 
mile  down  the  post  road,  you  will  find  a  sizable  heap  of 
stones.  It  will  be  edifying  to  see  which  among  you  decides 
that  he  is  the  one  to  cast  the  first  stone." 

That  was  all.  It  was  quite  enough.  Too  jolted  for  words, 
the  committee  sat  gaping.  No  doubt  but  that  Father  and  his 
household  would  have  been  expelled  from  the  congrega- 
tion but  for  one  potent  reason:  the  meeting-house  needed  a 
new  roof,  and  Editor  Stafford,  like  his  forbears,  was  a 
generous  giver. 

"They  knew  Father  would  pay  half  of  the  roof,  maybe 
more.  But  they  looked  down  their  noses  at  him  for  months. 
Then  the  Pacific  Railroad  came  along — my  goodness !" 

The  Pacific  Railroad  had  been  a  nine  days'  scandal. 
Rash  prophet,  Editor  Stafford  had  set  forth,  beneath  his 
own  unabashed  signature,  his  astounding  prediction.  He  had 
declared  that  he  and  his  sons  would  live  to  ride  on  a  rail- 
road that  would  stretch  directly  across  the  Continent  and 
tie  Boston  Harbor  to  that  ungodly  hamlet,  San  Fran- 
cisco! Foolishness,  hey?  Blasphemy.  Rank  blasphemy.  Had 
not  the  Almighty  set  an  eternal  barrier  between  the  East  and 
the  West,  a  barrier  built  up  of  wall  on  wall  of  mountain 
range,  of  league  on  league  of  desert?  yet  here  stood  John 
Stephen  Stafford,  poor  presumptuous  worm  of  the  dust, 
and  launched  his  puny  challenge  at  that  deathless  Law! 

Yet  their  supreme  grievance  was  his  stand  on  Abolition. 
For  a  Stafford,  a  Green  River  Stafford,  a  prince  of  the 
blood,  whose  ancestors  had  not  only  built  Green  River,  but 
had  endowed  it  with  its  loftiest  traditions,  to  join  that  rag- 
tag and  bob-tail  crew!   And  drat  the  man,  he  was  so  in- 


12  THE    FATHER 

fernally  serene  about  it!  To  see  him  stride  down  Stafford 
Hill,  his  silver  head  flung  high,  his  gray  eyes  snapping,  his 
tall  stock  fairly  spoiling  for  a  fight,  you'd  think  that  those 
Black  Republican  notions  of  his  were  something  to  be 
proud  of.  Agitator.  That  was  the  word  for  him.  Agitator. 
A  traitor  to  his  exalted  forbears.  A  hissing  and  a  reproach. 

Mercy  turned  and  looked  at  him,  serious,  adoring.  It 
was  as  if  she  looked  into  a  mirror  of  prophecy.  Feature  for 
feature,  glance  for  glance,  they  two  were  cast  in  the  same 
mold.  Broad  forehead,  clear  hazel  eyes  set  wide  apart, 
cool  lips,  unflinching  chin.  Even  her  silver-gilt  hair,  thick 
and  fine  in  its  netted  braids,  held  the  glint  of  his  heavy 
silver  crest.  But  on  her  face,  so  lovely,  so  untouched, 
shone  all  youth's  heady  eagerness,  its  flying  mystery;  while, 
graven  deep  on  his  own,  you  read  the  hard  endurance,  the 
dogged  scornful  patience,  of  a  man  who  has  carried  too 
heavy  burdens,  who  has  labored  always  on  tasks  not  right- 
fully his  own.  The  face  of  a  dreamer,  gentle  yet  arrogant, 
sardonic,  patient  and  aloof. 

Her  father  turned,  glanced  at  her.  Through  him  there 
swept  like  a  wave  the  tender  awe,  the  passion  of  love  and 
gratitude,  that  swept  him  always  when  he  looked  on  this, 
his  dearest  child.  He  held  his  sturdy  sons  in  proud  affection. 
But  Mercy  was  different.  She  was  not  just  the  child  of  his 
body.  She  was  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  the  evi- 
dence of  things  not  seen.  Of  all  his  hopes,  she  was  fulfill- 
ment. To  all  his  deep  perplexities  she  gave  triumphant 
answer.  His  eyes  upon  her  were  tenderness.  Of  what  could 
she  be  thinking,  to  bring  that  grave  thought  to  her  eyes, 
that  stainless  wonder? 

Absently  Mercy  shifted  Thomas  higher  against  her  shoul- 
der, and  freed  one  parboiled  arm  for  a  brief  respite. 
Thomas  had  succumbed  early,  and  as  was  his  custom,  he 
had  gone  to  sleep  on  the  first  person  that  came  handy.  Of 


THE    FATHER  13 

wintry  Sabbaths,  his  hot  chunky  body  was  a  comfort.  But  in 
this  summer  warmth,  he  steamed  up  like  a  dear  little  stove. 
She  then  resumed  her  reflections,  which  dealt  with  the 
starched  splendors  of  her  new  pantalettes.  With  chastened 
satisfaction,  she  reflected  that  not  another  girl  in  the 
congregation  could  boast  such  pantalettes.  She  twisted  a 
slim  leg,  to  get  a  better  view.  Aunty  had  embroidered  them 
for  her,  of  course.  Aunty  was  forever  rebuking  her  for 
vanity  and  quoting  Jeremiah  about  the  daughters  of  Zion 
with  their  wimples  and  their  crisping-pins;  but  it  was  Aunty 
who  had  sewn  the  fairy  tucks  in  her  four  clattering  wagon- 
sheets  of  petticoats,  and  bought  her  a  whole  carnal  yard  of 
white  hair-ribbon,  and  given  her  the  sumptuous  Neapolitan 
coal-scuttle  with  its  wreathed  roses  inside  which  framed  her 
face  like  a  mist. 

She  turned  to  her  father  again  and  slid  her  hand  against 
his  wrist.  On  his  face  lay  a  strange  shadow.  A  dark  new 
anxiety.  A  clouding  dread. 

An  anxious  ache  woke  in  Mercy's  heart.  For  weeks,  her 
father  had  seemed  rasped  and  worried.  She  could  not  imag- 
ine why. 

"He  ought  to  tell  me  things,"  she  thought  resentfully. 
"He  never  does  tell  me  anything  that  he's  afraid  will 
worry  me.  Everything  is  all  right  with  the  house  and 
the  children,  I  know  that.  And  when  people  pick  at  him,  he 
doesn't  care  one  bit.  He  just  laughs  at  them  inside.  Outside, 
sometimes,  too.  I  wish  I  knew  what  bothers  him.  If 
only » 

Her  father  did  not  look  her  way.  His  eyes  were  dark  with 
heavy  thought.  One  lean  fine  hand  clenched  on  his  knee. 

"Firstly,  my  brethren,  we  will  consider " 

Mercy  leaned  to  Adoniram,  gave  him  a  consoling  pat, 
slicked  down  Seth's  cowlick,  then  braced  herself  for  the 
long,  strong  pull  of  the  sermon.  Invariably  she  listened, 


14  THE    FATHER 

with  a  face  of  angelic  absorption,  until  she  had  grasped 
the  text  and  enough  of  the  interpretation  thereof  to  fortify 
her  against  Aunty's  vigilant  Sunday-dinner  catechism.  This 
task  discharged,  she  permitted  her  mind  to  relax  to  things 
mundane.  Under  demurest  lashes  she  pondered  upon  her 
fellow-worshipers. 

Across  from  her  sat  Lucinda  Perkins,  her  most  intimate 
friend.  But  Mercy  did  not  dare  look  her  way,  for  Lucinda, 
plump  and  apple-cheeked  and  bouncing,  was  a  giggler  from 
the  cradle.  One  glance,  one  nod,  would  set  her  off.  Safer  to 
keep  your  eyes  on  the  parson. 

In  front  of  Lucinda,  in  the  chill  red-rep  dignity  of  the 
Amberley  pew,  drooped  the  wan  and  lovely  Miss  Evelina 
Amberley,  in  all  her  frills  and  laces  and  f ollow-me-lads,  as 
scalloped  and  frilled  and  fluted  as  her  name.  Miss  Evelina 
was  a  puzzle.  She  was  more  than  twenty  years  old,  an  old 
maid,  no  gainsaying  that,  but  such  an  old  maid!  With  her 
transparent  fairness,  her  deep  blue  eyes,  the  pale  soft 
ringlets  that  framed  her  lily  face,  she  could  have  sat  for 
the  Spirit  of  Poesy.  The  drooping  billowing  flowing  Poesy 
of  1850.  But  deep  in  those  violet  eyes,  flickering  in  that 
slow  grace  of  movement,  you  caught  something  that  was  not 
in  the  picture:  a  glint  of  bleak  sullen  question;  a  tragic 
gleam. 

Mercy  now  devoted  some  moments  of  reflection  to  Miss 
Evelina.  She  sat  there,  as  frail  and  translucent  as  the 
spun-glass  lilies  in  Aunty's  teakwood  cabinet,  as  crisp  and 
brittle  as  the  fine  paper  ladies  that  Mercy  used  to  cut  from 
Godey's  Lady's1  Book.  She  was  like  nothing  on  earth  but  a 
paper  lady,  Mercy  thought,  she'd  crumple  and  break  if  you 
so  much  as  breathed  on  her. 

Yet  this  very  morning,  as  the  family  had  come  up  the 
church-yard  path,  Miss  Evelina  had  stepped  down  from 
her  grand  barouche.  Clouded  in  laces,  misty,  pale,  silent, 


THE    FATHER  15 

she  had  stood  a  moment,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  three  little 
boys. 

Then  with  a  soft  rush,  she  had  pounced  on  little  Thomas, 
snatched  him  into  her  slight  arms,  and  hugged  him  till  his 
fat  astonished  ribs  creaked.  Swiftly  as  she  had  caught  him 
up,  she  put  him  down,  and  turned  so  softly,  so  silently, 
away. 

"But  she  didn't  say  one  word  to  the  rest  of  us!"  Mercy 
stared  after  her.  A  curious  memory  awoke.  "That  other 
time,  I  must  have  been  only  ten  years  old.  Ten,  going  on 
eleven,  maybe " 

Ten,  going  on  eleven,  and  she  and  Lucinda  were  play- 
ing down  the  orchard,  making  hollyhock  dolls.  Up  the 
broad  brick  walk  to  the  house,  came  Miss  Evelina.  She  had 
driven  up  to  pay  her  stately  annual  call; — but — incredible! 
At  sight  of  the  two  little  girls,  she  had  hesitated;  then  she 
had  turned,  floating  across  the  sun-warmed  grass  to  them. 

"I  used  to  make  flower  dolls,"  she  said,  shy  as  another 
child,  for  all  her  grown-up  young-lady  splendor.  "May  I 
play,  too?" 

Down  she  sank  beside  them.  The  next  minute,  she  was 
fashioning  the  most  ornate  ladies  ever  beheld.  Daisy  petals 
made  point-lace  frills  around  slim  broom-straw  necks, 
petunias  tilted  to  form  bewitching  sun-shades.  She  was  just 
looping  up  a  fern-leaf  train  when  Uncle  Joel  came  gallop- 
ing up  the  lawn  on  his  great  black  Diomed.  Uncle  Joel, 
Mercy's  wonderful  young  uncle,  galloping  back,  as  always, 
from  one  of  his  mysterious  romantic  journeys.  Although  he 
had  been  gone  for  a  month,  he  had  not  stopped  at  the 
house,  to  face  Aunty's  cold  rebuking  eyes,  to  grant  one 
minute  to  father's  anxious  questions.  Not  Uncle  Joel. 

"Oh!  Uncle  Joel!"  Mercy  sprang  up  and  ran  to  him. 
But  he  did  not  stoop  to  kiss  her,  and  toss  her  up  for  a  canter 
on  Diomed.  He  did  not  even  speak  to  her.  Instead,  he  stood 


16  THE    FATHER 

perfectly  still,  and  looked  and  looked  at  Miss  Evelina,  as 
if  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time. 

Miss  Evelina  looked  back  at  him.  Her  blue  eyes  did  not 
flinch.  Her  beautiful  mouth  did  not  quiver. 

Then,  before  you  could  blink,  he  had  laughed  out  loud 
and  high,  and  he  had  snatched  up  Miss  Evelina,  and  tossed 
her  to  his  saddle,  and  leaped  up  behind  her,  like  a  great  gay 
prince  in  a  story-book.  Down  Stafford  Road  the  black  horse 
galloped  away. 

Horrified  and  delighted,  Mercy  and  Lucinda  stared  after 
them.  It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  they  came  galloping 
back. 

But  now  Uncle  Joel  was  not  laughing  at  all.  He  had 
sprung  down  and  lifted  Miss  Evelina  to  her  feet,  as  care- 
fully as  if  he  lifted  down  the  spun-glass  lily  itself.  Then 
he  had  stood  and  looked  at  her  again.  Suddenly  he  had 
caught  Miss  Evelina  up  into  his  arms,  and  held  her  to  him  a 
long  minute,  his  dark  head  dropped  against  her  lacy  shoul- 
der, his  face  hidden  in  her  throat. 

Only  a  minute,  though.  For  it  seemed  as  if  Miss  Evelina, 
frail  little  paper-lady,  was  stronger  than  he;  for  she  put  up 
her  tiny  soft  hands,  and  pushed  him  back.  And  he  had 
yielded,  and  let  her  go.  He  drew  back,  staring  down  into 
her  stern  ashen-white  face.  And  in  the  late  sunlight,  his 
hard  handsome  young  face  was  even  whiter  than  her  own. 

Beside  Miss  Evelina  in  their  tall  fortress-pew  sat  her 
father,  stately  old  Judge  Amberley.  Between  Father  and 
Judge  Amberley  lay  a  life-long  friendship.  Sixty  years  ago, 
a  starved  terrified  waif  of  nine,  ragged  little  Lucius  Am- 
berley had  been  apprenticed  to  Father's  grandfather,  Richard 
Huntingdon.  Richard  Huntingdon,  wealthy,  generous,  kind, 
had  reared  the  boy  in  his  own  household,  educated  him, 
set  his  feet  on  the  road  of  success.  Then  the  pendulum  had 


THE    FATHER  17 

swung,  and  while  the  Huntingdon  estates  had  diminished, 
young  Lucius  had  doubled,  trebled,  quadrupled,  his  slender 
gains.  His  ships  were  symbols  of  fortune.  His  great  house 
on  Beacon  Hill  was  a  palace,  even  in  the  midst  of  palaces. 
But  every  year  he  came  back  to  Green  River,  more  to  feast 
his  eyes  on  the  sight  of  Father,  beloved  descendant  of  his 
own  second  father,  than  for  any  other  reason.  To-day 
Mercy  saw  him  turn  his  splendid  old  gray  head,  saw  his 
deep  eyes  light  with  proud  confident  affection. 

"He  looks  at  Father  just  as  Father  looks  at  Adoniram," 
she  thought.  "When  Adoniram's  got  his  ears  pinned  back, 
that  is.  Not  always." 

Two  seats  away  sat  Deacon  Heber  Lyman,  just  back 
from  a  journey  to  the  wilds  of  Illinois,  where  he  had  been 
the  guest  of  his  twin  brother,  Timothy  D.  At  thought  of 
the  absent  Timothy,  Mercy's  lips  quirked.  Whenever  those 
twins  sat  side  by  side  in  meeting,  it  took  a  superhuman  effort 
to  tell  them  apart.  They  differed  only  as  one  stiff  frozen 
salt  codfish  from  another.  To  be  sure,  Timothy  was  a  cod 
smooth-shaven,  while  the  Deacon  was  a  codfish  with  side- 
whiskers.  But  both  gave  you  the  same  slippery,  squeamy 
feeling,  both  wore  square  green  spectacles;  and  behind 
those  spectacles,  you  met  the  same  cold  salt  filmy  glare. 

"Sixthly,  my  brethren,"  droned  Parson  Avery.  Mercy 
groaned.  Sunday  before  last,  he'd  gone  on  to  Seventeenthly. 
No  telling.  Her  foot  was  asleep.  Her  very  ears  felt  stuffed 
and  taut. 

Away  she  fled  on  the  trail  of  magic.  Alone  she  fled.  But 
not  for  long.  At  the  first  turn  of  the  woodland  path,  he 
would  come  galloping  to  meet  her,  lordly  on  his  snow-white 
charger,  her  prince,  her  lover.  His  lance  at  rest,  his  banner 
flying  in  the  wind,  that  wind  that  never  blew  on  land  or 
sea.  .  .  . 

From  across  the  aisle  she  could  feel  the  eyes  of  Lemuel 


18  THE    FATHER 

G.  Crowther  glued  upon  her  face.  Lemuel,  arrayed  like  a 
youthful  Solomon,  sat  in  the  bosom  of  his  devoted  family. 
If  you  didn't  mind  pretending,  you  could  pretend  that 
Lemuel  was  your  knight,  though  it  was  uphill  work. 
There  was  no  doubting  Lemuel's  devotion.  He  had  brought 
her  maple  sugar  in  rough-edged  luscious  chunks,  he  had 
spied  out  the  first  snow-apples  for  her;  he  had  even  sent 
her  a  valentine,  all  hearts  and  darts,  with  an  original  poem 
of  a  hauntingly  familiar  flavor. 

Above  Lemuel's  pale  blue  eyes,  his  pale  pink  hair  reared 
in  a  lofty  roach.  It  glittered  with  bears'  grease,  it  was 
scented  with  bergamot  till  all  the  winds  of  heaven  were 
faint  with  him.  Below  that  august  front  one  observed  a 
ruffled  white  shirt  and  tight  trousers  strapped  under  cruel 
tight  new  boots.  He  would  look  lots  more  knightly,  she 
thought  with  regret,  if  he  wasn't  chewing  surreptitiously 
on  a  chunk  of  sassafras  root.  Between  those  spit-curls  and 
that  clamped,  industrious  jaw,  he  didn't  quite  qualify.  When 
you  thought  it  over,  there  wasn't  a  single  boy  in  Green 
River  who  seemed  one  set  apart  for  chivalry.  Eliphalet 
Gurney,  Amariah  Prescott,  Lemuel, — each  had  made 
sheep's  eyes  at  her,  but  that  was  all. 

It  would  be  nice  if  a  girl  could  go  riding  out  and  find 
her  own  true  knight.  But  how  unladylike!  Still,  the  damsels 
of  Faery  were  forever  getting  rescued.  And  how  could  she 
ever  need  rescuing  if  she  hadn't  started  out  and  got  into 
distress,  first? 

A  joyful  gurgle  fell  upon  her  ear.  Beside  her  Seth  had 
sat  this  endless  hour,  his  active  mind  aching  with  enforced 
idleness,  his  plump  legs  dangling  in  torture  over  the  high 
knife-edged  seat.  Suddenly  came  respite.  Through  the  tall 
bare  window  floated  a  bee. 

Seth  saw  it  first.  In  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude,  he  leaned  for- 
ward, farther  and  farther,  to  watch  that  whimsy  flight.  In 


THE    FATHER  19 

evil  joy,  he  prayed  that  it  might  alight  on  Preacher's  book. 
Then  his  breath  caught  in  rapture.  For  he  saw  it  was  headed 
straight  for  Mrs.  Deacon  Kimball's  bonnet.  It  was  a  very 
lummox  of  a  bee,  for  didn't  it  alight,  confidingly,  on  the 
ghastly  scintillating  wheat  stalks,  embalmed  in  alum,  that 
twined  a  spectral  garland  around  her  red  good-humored 
face.  Then,  sadly  disillusioned,  it  buzzed  aloft,  wavered, 
with  confidence  renewed,  it  settled  down  on  the  smashed 
blue  rose,  just  above  one  matronly  ear. 

Taut  with  delight,  Seth  leaned  out,  farther,  farther; 
.  .  .  with  a  splutter  of  fright  he  sprawled  off  the  seat  and 
lit  with  a  thump  on  the  bare  board  floor. 

Paralyzed  with  horror,  Aunty  sat,  speechless.  But  Father 
stooped,  seized  him  by  his  infant  swallow-tails,  and  swung 
him  back  on  the  seat  with  an  even  louder  thump.  Then  he 
glanced  at  Mercy.  Mercy  glowed  back.  Her  heart  began 
to  dance.  Father  couldn't  be  much  worried  and  laugh  inside 
like  that. 

"Finally,  my  brethren,"  Parson  Avery  was  tuning  up  to 
his  climax,  "Finally,  my  brethren,  let  us  stand  firm  in  the 
faith,  let  us  not  be  led  aside  by  false  prophets  in  sheep's 
clothing,  while  within  they  are  ravening  wolves.  It  is  borne 
in  upon  me,  to  my  sorrow,  that  in  this  congregation  of  the 
righteous,  there  stand  men  who  would  tempt  us  aside  from 
ways  of  holiness.  These  have  been  drawn  away  by  the 
smooth  word  of  the  fanatics,  the  agitators,  who  would  set 
at  naught  the  Lord's  decrees.  What  saith  Holy  Writ?  'Let 
them  be  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water  forever.' 
Yet  these  misguided  men  would  set  free  the  bondsman 
from  his  ordained  place.  They  would  strike  down,  they 
would  destroy,  they  would  drench  this  nation  in  blood. 
Brethren,  let  us  be  warned.  Let  us  beware!" 

Again  that  chill  breeze  went  through  the  congregation. 


20  THE    FATHER 

A  chill  that  struck  the  heart.  Again  those  unfriendly  eyes 
turned  to  the  Stafford  pew.  But  not  one  Stafford  flinched. 
The  boys  were  too  little  to  understand.  Father's  face  was 
cut  from  granite.  Aunt  Celestia  did  not  bat  an  eyelash. 
But,  hid  in  her  flounces,  Mercy's  hands  clinched.  Fury 
choked  in  her  throat.  How  dared  Parson  Avery  to  strike  at 
Father!  Strike  at  him  right  in  meeting!  A  minister,  in- 
deed! Hateful,  meddling  old  man!  For  two  cents,  she'd 
tell  him  what  she  thought  of  him.  Tell  him  right  to  his 
horrid  old  face. 

She  looked  at  Father.  Father  looked  back  at  her.  A 
dancing  devil  awoke  in  his  eye. 

Fearfully  she  looked  at  his  stock.  It  stood  straight  as  a 
ramrod,  inimitably  serene.  Not  one  skew  to  it.  Not  one 
single  agitated  quirk. 


CHAPTER    TWO 

MERCY  sat  in  her  little  white  bedroom.  On  her  knee 
she  held  two  books.  One  was  a  plump  pale  blue  vol- 
ume entitled  Henry  Esmond,  by  an  English  gentleman 
named  Thackeray.  Lucinda  Perkins,  her  very  dearest  friend, 
had  slipped  it  into  her  reticule  last  prayer-meeting  night 
when  Aunty  wasn't  looking.  The  other  volume  was  her 
diary,  a  gift  from  Aunty,  upon  her  graduation  from  the 
Green  River  Academy  last  May.  It  was  a  ponderous  affair, 
and,  like  all  Aunty's  gifts,  austere  and  costly.  It  was  bound 
in  heavy  black  leather,  and  it  was  stamped  in  gold: 

MERCY  ROSE  STAFFORD 

MAY   THE    FIRST 
185O 

Inside  was  written  in  Aunty's  cramped  and  spidery  hand: 

Refrain,  my  Pen,  from  words,  or  Mean,  or  Vile. 
Even  as  my   Tongue  refrains  from  Sfeaking  Guile. 

Further,  upon  each  day's  pages,  Aunty's  own  foresighted 
pen  had  bracketed  off  a  space  marked  "Spiritual  Medita- 
tions." Three  hundred  and  sixty-five  times,  had  she  set  aside 
this  small,  inexorable  space.  "Here  I  expect  you  to  write 
down  your  deepest  convictions  as  well  as  your  most  exalted 
thoughts,"  she  had  announced,  when  she  laid  the  diary  into 
Mercy's  hands. 

How  under  the  firmament  could  anybody  scare  up  deep 
convictions  every  single  day  of  the  year?  thought  Mercy, 
dismayed. 

Aunty  had  added,  "Remember,  no  human  eye  will  ever 


22  THE    FATHER 

read  these  lines.  What  stands  written  here  is  between  you 
and  your  own  soul."  Therefore,  when  Mercy's  spirit  de- 
clined to  soar  to  far  heights,  the  extra  lines  came  in  handy 
for  a  secular  overflow. 

Now  she  looked  on  Henry  Esmond  with  longing  eyes. 
Sad,  but  stern,  she  rose,  and  tucked  him  safely  behind  Mil- 
ton on  the  top  shelf.  But  again  temptation  assailed  her. 

"No,  I  will  not  read  it  to-day,  for  it  does  not  befit  the 
Sabbath. — Only  one  peek.  To  see  whether  they  really 
do  get  married " 

The  long  gold  afternoon  waned.  Mercy  sat  scrouged  into 
her  dormer  window.  Her  cheeks  were  burning,  her  eyes 
glowed  dark.  She  was  no  longer  Mercy  Rose  Stafford  of 
Green  River,  Massachusetts,  in  embroidered  pantalettes  and 
a  brand-new  blue  delaine.  She  was  Beatrix  Esmond,  fair, 
regal,  haughty  as  any  queen.  Her  glorious  head  was  flung 
high,  her  robe  of  velvet  trailed  upon  the  marble  stair.  Before 
her  knelt  Colonel  Esmond.  His  strong  hand  shook  on  his 
scabbard:  his  proud  head  bent  so  close  she  could  touch  the 
dark  shining  locks  that  brushed  her  knee.   .  .  . 

"Mercy  Rose!  Haven't  you  finished  your  chapter  for  next 
Sunday?" 

Henry  Esmond  shot  under  Thomas's  trundle  bed. 

"Please,  Aunty,  I  would  like  to  write  in  my  diary." 

"Oh."  A  gratified  pause.  "Well.  Come  down  as  soon's 
you're  through." 

Mercy  seized  her  tall  quill  pen,  planted  herself  at  her 
desk,  set  resolutely  to  work. 

"First  Day,  September  third,  1850. 
"This  is  a  beautiful  Sabbath  day.  We  had  a  verry  edify- 
ing Sermon,  on  the  text,  They  have  sown  wheat,  they  shall 
reap  thorns.  Jeremiah  XIII. 


THE    FATHER  23 

"I  am  so  hopping  mad  at  Parson  Avery  for  saucing 
Father  right  out  in  meeting  that  I  cannot  think  of  anything 
else,  but  I  will  put  him  aside  and  discuss  him  when  I  get 
to  my  spiritual  meditations.  I  am  proberly  getting  red-hot 
for  nothing  at  all,  for  Father  did  not  seem  to  mind.  He 
only  laughed  at  me.  Though  Aunty  said  that  it  was  enough 
to  Blast  him  where  he  stood.  Aunty  said  also  that  whenever 
any  of  her  family  stood  in  need  of  correction,  she  was  capa- 
ble of  giving  it  herself,  and  that  with  all  due  reverence  to 
Parson  Avery,  he  was  a  born  Nosey  if  she  ever  saw  one. 
Sometimes  I  feel  that  Aunty  is  the  most  agreeable  relation  I 
have  got. 

"Father  wore  his  new  Morocco  boots  to  church.  They 
cost  twenty-two  dollars.  Thomas  said  he  thought  Father's 
legs  were  beautiful  and  Aunty  said  that  was  all  vanity,  and 
that  the  Lord  hath  no  pleasure  in  the  legs  of  a  man. 

"As  soon  as  service  was  over,  Father  hunted  up  Miss 
Euphemia  Parish,  and  Old  Captain  Jones  and  invited  them 
to  dinner,  and  brought  them  in  the  carryall.  So  poor  Miss 
Euphemia  had  something  beside  bread  and  tea  for  once  in 
her  life.  I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  be  seventy-six  and  a  maiden 
lady  and  have  made  your  living  for  sixty-eight  years,  doing 
plain  needlework,  and  no  wonder  she  enjoys  chicken  pot- 
pie  and  black  fruit-cake.  And  the  Captain  is  eighty-six,  and 
he  fought  through  the  Revolution  and  then  came  home  and 
got  married  twice  and  after  a  while  there  came  the  War 
of  1 81 2  and  he  fought  aboard  Perry's  Flagship,  and  then 
came  home  and  got  married  again  and  then  he  wanted  to 
go  to  the  Mexican  War,  because,  he  told  Father,  it  seemed 
to  come  so  natural.  But  by  that  time  he  was  eighty  and  they 
couldn't  take  him  along  and  now  his  son-in-law  lets  him 
live  there  and  allows  him  fifty  cents  a  month  for  clothes 
and  tobacco  money.  A  very  Christian  act. 

"He  comes  to  dinner  almost  every  Sunday,  and  he  gets  so 


24  THE    FATHER 

excited  and  happy,  and  tells  us  all  about  the  battles  he  has 
been  in,  and  stomps  up  and  down  the  dining-room  floor  and 
acts  it  all  out,  and  Aunty  thinks  it  is  scandalous  for  Father 
to  let  him  carry  on  so  on  the  Sabbath,  and  Father  says,  'If  I 
was  eighty-six  I  would  want  the  privilege  of  showing  off, 
too.'  But  Aunty  says  It  is  a  grievous  example  for  the  little 
boys.  Besides,  she  says  she  feels  that  if  Father  is  bound 
to  profane  the  Sabbath  day  by  bringing  folks  home  to  din- 
ner, he  might  invite  somebody  elegant  for  once,  like  Judge 
Amberley,  or  Major  Preston  from  Ipswich,  and  Father 
says,  'Perhaps  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Dives,'  and  he  laughed 
and  patted  her  shoulder,  but  she  didn't  see  what  he  meant 
by  Mrs.  Dives,  and  no  more  do  I. 

"It  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  ought  to  keep  my  mind  on 
serious  things,  for  I  heard  Aunty  tell  Father  she  intended 
to  give  me  her  tombstone  and  I  realize  she  feels  I  am  grow- 
ing up  and  should  be  making  up  my  mind  unless  I  wish  to 
be  considered  an  old  maid  like  Miss  Euphemia.  Of  course  if 
I  was  picking  out  any  special  boy  for  my  own  true  knight, 
I  should  like  to  please  the  folks  as  well  as  myself,  and  I 
guess  that  won't  be  so  easy. 

"To  begin  with,  there  is  Jonas  Tuckerman.  He  is  tall  and 
sightly-looking,  but  the  little  boys  plumb  despise  him,  be- 
cause he  came  along  last  March  in  his  cutter  to  take  me 
sleighing  and  I  had  gone  skating  with  Lemuel,  so  Jonas 
was  annoyed  and  said  to  the  little  boys,  Hitch  on  your  sleds 
and  I  will  take  you  all  for  a  ride,  so  they  hitched  and 
didn't  he  haul  them  out  as  far  as  Newell's  Mill,  and  then 
cut  the  sled  ropes,  and  off  he  kited,  and  they  had  to  walk 
all  the  way  home,  and  Thomas  had  croup  for  a  week.  And 
Aunty  scalded  Seth  twice  with  yarb  tea. 

"I  felt  I  could  never  forgive  Jonas  that  cruel  trick,  but 
Jonas  brings  me  Boston  candy  in  a  box  with  paper  lace  on 


THE    FATHER  25 

it  every  single  week  and  he  also  sent  me  the  most  expensive 
valentine  I  ever  saw.  It  had  35c  marked  inside.  And  Jonas's 
father  has  just  bought  a  fine  new  farm,  down  Fitchburg 
way,  so  a  person  has  to  be  forbearing  in  all  things. 

"Then  there  is  Eliphalet  Carver.  His  mother  is  always 
asking  me  there  to  supper,  and  telling  me  what  a  good  little 
boy  he  used  to  be  and  always  went  to  bed  when  told,  and 
never  talked  back  in  all  his  born  days.  But  Aunty  says  she 
never  could  really  abide  'Liph  because  he  resembled  the 
Prodigal  Son  in  the  Bible  picture. 

"Of  course  there  is  always  Lemuel  G.  Crowther.  He  has 
shown  me  much  real  devotion.  I  believe  he  regards  me  as  his 
life's  ideal.  Anyhow,  in  the  poem  he  wrote  me  last  Christ- 
mas, he  same  as  said  so.  But  Father  says,  if  Eliph  looks 
like  the  Prodigal  Son,  then  Lemuel  looks  like  the  Fatted 
Calf.  I  consider  Lemuel  good-looking,  but  I  do  wish  he 
would  not  wear  those  spit-curls.  Nor  that  blue  nuby.  But 
his  mother  says  his  chest  is  tender,  so  I  suppose  it  is  neces- 
sary. Aunty  says  she  has  no  patience  with  any  of  them,  they 
are  so  half  baked,  and  if  'Liph  and  Jonas  do  not  cease  wear- 
ing their  trousers  so  tight  their  legs  will  mortify.  I  respect 
Lemuel  and  I  admire  him,  but  I  can't  help  wishing  he  had 
some  of  Jonas's  style,  and  it  would  be  grand  to  have  him 
bring  me  Boston  candy,  instead  of  always  blackjack  and 
Gibraltars  stuck  together  in  a  paper  bag.  .  .  ." 

A  cooler  wind  drifted  through  the  reddening  maples,  and 
sent  whispering  flights  of  scarlet  and  gold  and  amber  scurry- 
ing up  and  down  the  path.  Even  while  their  dinner  guests 
lingered,  the  little  boys  had  tugged  imploringly  at  Father's 
coat.  Decorous  and  silent,  so  as  not  to  worry  Aunty,  Seth 
gathered  up  the  clothespins.  Then,  Indian  file,  stepping 
lightly  as  so  many  Mohawk  pappooses,  they  glided  down  to 


26  THE    FATHER 

KimbalPs  orchard.  Mercy  looked  after  them  wistfully.  But 
Father's  Sundays  were  possessed  in  fee  simple  by  the  little 
boys. 

"Mercy  Rose  Stafford,  are  you  ever  coming  down?" 

Mercy  laid  down  her  diary  and  fled  down  the  stairs. 

Faint  echoes  of  conflict  came  from  the  orchard,  for  the 
little  boys  were  now  in  full  cry  after  the  Amalekites,  and 
the  Jebusites  were  being  hurled  asunder.  Fortunately, 
Aunty's  deaf  ear  was  turned  toward  the  window. 

Aunty  wore  her  Sabbath  afternoon  face,  sterner  than 
her  weekday  aspect,  yet  inexplicably  more  gentle.  She  had 
taken  off  her  Sunday  hoops  to  save  the  wear  and  tear  and 
this  gave  her  a  singularly  deflated  look.  She  sat  in  the  slip- 
pery hair  rocker  with  the  pomegranates  carved  atop,  exactly 
where  her  weary  head  would  slide  off  with  a  racking  jolt  if 
it  dared  to  lean  back  for  one  instant.  But  no  earthly  power 
would  ever  beguile  Aunty  into  an  easy  chair. 

Aunty  did  not  sit  alone  in  that  wide  tranquil  room.  There 
were  other  people  there;  people  whose  eyes  followed  you 
wherever  you  went.  Dusk-painted  shadows,  these  others, 
whose  flowing  trains  and  velvet  breeches,  plumes  and  jewels 
and  tarnished  sword-belts,  made  flares  of  wine  and  crimson 
and  silver  against  the  gray  walls.  There  was  Great-grand- 
father Davenport,  with  his  plum-colored  coat,  his  bluff 
red  face,  his  proud  Georgian  wig,  and  the  wall-eye  which 
the  conscientious  artist  had  emphasized  rather  than  glossed 
over.  There  were  his  three  daughters,  the  Three  Graces, 
as  Beacon  Hill  of  their  day  had  declared  them,  slim  dryad 
damsels  in  narrow  pale  Empire  satins.  Their  delicate  high 
breasts  were  girdled  with  pearls,  their  long  pale  arms  were 
circled  in  rose-coral  and  in  gilded  traceries  of  filigree. 
And  there  was  not  one  crinoline,  not  so  much  as  one  modest 
womanly  petticoat,  among  all  three!  Across  from  them 
hung  Great-grandmother  Huntingdon,   all  peach  brocade 


THE    FATHER  27 

and  emeralds,  a  gorgeous  sulky  macaw  chained  on  her 
wrist,  while  two  tiny  negro  pages  in  vermilion  livery  waited 
to  tend  on  her  brocaded  train.  Father's  people,  brought  back 
from  the  dark  old  Mount  Vernon  Street  house  to  Green 
River,  his  mother's  birthplace,  when  death  and  waning 
fortunes  had  driven  the  family  from  its  high  place.  Not 
that  that  harsh  truth  meant  anything  in  Mercy's  life.  All 
her  days  had  been  spent  in  this  sunny  homestead.  To  her, 
this  peaceful  old  house  with  its  flowery  garden,  its  broad 
farms,  its  cradling  orchards,  spelled  home.  It  would  spell 
home  forever. 

Aunty  looked  up  and  gave  her  an  approving  nod. 

"Your  hair  looks  master  neat  in  that  chenille  net,  Mercy. 
Fine  as  your  great-grandma's." 

Mercy  eyed  her  ancestress  with  scant  favor. 

"I  think  great-grandmother  looks  stuck  up.  Maybe  she 
couldn't  help  that,  being  as  she  was  born  in  Virginia.  But 
she  needn't  have  peacocked  around  forever,  balancing  those 
plumes  and  fallals  and  trailing  that  train.  Even  if  she  did 
have  two  little  darkies  in  short  pants,  to  carry  it  for  her." 

"She  didn't  spend  all  her  days  in  peacocking,  Miss,  mind 
that.  She  managed  her  home  plantation  with  three  hundred 
slaves  on  it,  she  taught  her  girls  to  spin  and  weave  and  wash 
and  cook,  and  she  kept  an  eye  on  the  fields  and  the  gardens, 
besides.  She  was  a  born  leader,  and  a  fighter,  too.  When  the 
Britishers  came  to  burn  the  big  house  and  loot  the  place, 
didn't  she  order  up  her  field  hands  and  arm  them  with  the 
muskets  she  had  bought  and  hid  in  the  tobacco  warehouse. 
She'd  even  drilled  her  men  against  that  very  chance.  And 
she  tucked  up  her  petticoats,  and  led  them  out  against  the 
attack,  herself.  They  tell  it  that  she  shot  his  horse  from 
under  the  English  captain  who  was  leading  the  raid,  and 
held  her  pistol  to  his  aide's  head,  and  forced  them  both  to 
yield  their  arms,  and  then  locked  'em  in  the  south  guest 


28  THE    FATHER 

chamber  till  your  grandfather  came  rushing  home,  half  mad 
with  fear  for  her." 

"Then  what  did  she  do  to  the  Britishers?  Keep  them 
locked  up  on  bread  and  water?" 

"Not  she.  She  brings  out  her  keys  and  opens  up  her  store- 
room, and  sets  them  down  to  a  dinner  fit  for  King  George 
himself.  And  the  Britishers  ate  like  starved  hounds.  They 
ate  till  she  was  clean  scared  for  them.  Yes,  she  was  as  fine 
as  they  come.  Be  thankful  that  you  take  after  her." 

"Well,  maybe  I  do  take  after  great-grandmother. 
But "  she  frowned  rebelliously,  "but  look  at  her  chin!" 

Chin,  indeed.  Steady  and  hard  and  square,  lifted  high 
above  the  Flemish  laces,  the  glittering  stones.  Iron. 

"Oh,  very  well,  Miss.  It  happens  to  be  your  own  chin, 
too." 

Mercy  felt  of  her  own  chin.  Velvet.  Under  the  velvet, 
the  square  little  hard  jaw.  Iron. 

"Never  you  mind,  Mercy.  Folks  have  got  to  have  a  mite 
of  iron  in  them,  if  they  hope  to  amount  to  anything.  Besides, 
it's  your  father's  chin,  too.  Every  inch  of  it." 

Mercy's  eyes  cleared.  Anything  to  be  like  Father. 

"Does  everybody  have  to  go  back  to  somebody  else?" 

"Everybody  goes  right  back  to  somebody  else.  Seth  takes 
straight  after  my  grand-uncle,  Simeon.  Simeon  was  a  bog- 
gier and  a  blunderer,  every  day  of  his  life.  Adoniram  is  the 
breathing  image  of  Gran'ther  Davenport,  freckles,  and 
solemn  pop-eyes,  and  all.  Your  father  has  skimmed  the 
cream  off  the  whole  batch.  If  just  he  wasn't  so  sinful  proud, 
so  high-headed,  so  stubborn!" 

Father  was  perfection's  self.  Only 

"I  think  Father  is  all  the  grander,  just  because  he  is  so 

set.  But Oh,  Aunty,  I  do  wish  he  wasn't  so  set  on 

anti-slavery ! " 

"I  know,  Mercy.  I  never  could  hold  with  those  abolition 


THE    FATHER  29 

notions  of  his.  Land  knows,  I've  tried  to  reason  with  him. 
Might's  well  try  to  reason  with  the  wind.  And  other  folks 
despise  his  Black  Republican  ideas,  even  worse  than  I  do. 
Take  Mr.  Emerson.  He's  dead  against  slavery,  but  he  stops 
short  of  being  a  fanatic.  He  don't  believe  in  carrying  any 
fight  so  far.  Remember  the  last  time  he  stayed  with  us? 
He  and  your  father  wrangled  it  out  all  night.  I  consider 
Mr.  Emerson  is  sinfully  unorthodox,  but  when  it  comes  to 
anti-slavery,  I'll  own  he  shows  more  good  hard  gumption 
than  John  ever  dreamed  of." 

Mercy  remembered.  She  could  see  Mr.  Emerson,  his  tall 
stooped  figure,  his  lean  keen  face,  his  blue  eyes,  hard  as 
blue  stones,  under  clear  questioning  brows.  She  could  hear 
his  steady  reiterated  words: 

"I  know,  I  know,  Stafford.  But  you  and  I  have  other 
prisoners  to  free,  not  negroes  alone.  It  is  our  work  to  free 
imprisoned  spirits,  shackled  thoughts,  to  free  the  minds  of 
men,  before  we  seek  to  break  the  chains  of  bondage " 

— "And  much  good  it  did  him,  to  argue  himself 
hoarse.  Your  father  didn't  yield  him  a  hair's  breadth.  But 
it's  not  just  John's  high-flown  ideas  that  worry  me,  Mercy. 
It's  the  way  he  makes  a  pack-horse  of  himself,  year  in,  year 
out,  for  folks  that  ain't  fit  to  black  his  boots  for  him.  Not 
only  for  his  own  blood,  but  for  everybody  else.  His  kinsfolk 
is  the  worst,  though.  They've  all  hung  on  his  coat-tails, 
forever  more.  From  Great-grandfather  Davenport,  on 
down." 

"I  know  that."  Oh,  if  Father  could  only  take  life  a  little 
easier!  If  he  could  only  go  prancing  through  his  days,  like 
Uncle  Joel! 

"Listen,  Aunty.  Who  does  Uncle  Joel  take  after?" 

"What!"  Aunty  wheeled  sharply.  All  the  Sunday  peace 
went  out  of  her  face.  Her  faded  mouth  grew  hard,  her 
eyes  grew  stony.  "Don't  talk  to  me  about  your  Uncle  Joel ! " 


30  THE    FATHER 

"W-why " 


"H'm.  Don't  I  know  him,  root  and  branch?  Always  gal- 
loping off  on  the  finest  horses  money  can  buy;  always  tear- 
ing away  to  the  world's  end,  to  make  his  everlastin'  fortune ; 
always  careerin'  home  with  some  new  plan  that's  bound  to 
put  the  Staffords  back  at  the  top  of  creation,  right  where 
they  belong,  and  spending  your  Pa's  money  to  do  it 
with " 

Aunty  stopped.  A  mortified  scarlet  poured  over  her  face. 
Aunty  was  a  bred-in-the-bone  Puritan,  with  all  that  that 
implies.  But  unlike  her  critics  of  to-day,  she  hesitated  to 
smirch  the  mind  of  a  child. 

"I  donno  what  possessed  me,  Mercy.  Your  father  thinks 
Joel  is  the  pick  of  creation.  He's  the  young  brother,  the 
Benjamin  of  his  house,  to  your  father." 

"But — why — how " 

"Have  you  learned  your  chapter  for  next  Sunday,  Mercy? 
Recite  it  to  me.  Right  now.  You  haven't  so  much  as  started 
it?  Well,  I  donno  what  children  are  coming  to.  In  my 
day " 

Mercy  sniffed.  Trust  Aunty  to  change  the  subject  when- 
ever she  saw  fit,  and  change  it  with  a  bang. 

Up  from  Kimball's  orchard,  hot  and  tired  and  gor- 
geously happy,  came  the  three  little  boys.  Lightly  they  trod. 
No  need  of  worrying  Aunty.  They  had  smitten  the  Canaan- 
ites  and  despoiled  the  Egyptians  and  walloped  the  Amale- 
kites  and  sent  the  Moabites  scuttling  for  shelter.  "Moab 
shall  be  my  washpot,  over  Edom  will  I  cast  out  my  shoe," 
chanted  Adoniram,  a  ferocious  young  conqueror.  Seth,  a 
wounded  archer,  strutted  before  him,  holding  his  bandaged 
arm  outstretched.  Little  Thomas  swaggered  high  in  his 
war  chariot.  Wreathed  dancing  girls  tossed  their  timbrels 
before  him.  Wailing  captives  dragged  his  dreadful  car.  Lit- 
tle boys  can  dream  dreams,  too. 


THE    FATHER  31 

"Oh,  didn't  we  have  a  grand  old  fight!  Mercy,  you 
ought  to  of  been  there,  too!" 

Father  pinched  Mercy's  ear,  looked  down  at  her,  ten- 
derly, quizzically.  Over  her  shoulder  the  new  moon 
threaded  silver,  silver  as  her  folded  braids  against  the  gold 
of  sunset.  She  was  like  the  new  moon  herself,  this  girl  of 
his,  this  branch  of  young  willow,  white  as  curds,  slim  as  a 
reed  in  the  wind. 

"The  grandest  victory  of  our  campaign,  Mercy.  Next 
time,  you  must  come  along."  All  the  dark  worry  of  the 
morning  had  faded  from  his  eyes.  He  himself  was  just  a  hot 
tired  happy  little  boy. 

Suddenly  Seth  forgot  his  honorable  wounds.  He  shot  past 
them,  with  a  joyful  shout,  "Who-ee!  Goody,  goody,  goody! 
It's  Uncle  Joel,  it's  Uncle  Joel!" 

"Joel!" 

Father  dropped  Mercy's  hand.  He  stepped  back.  All  that 
contentment,  that  impish  fun,  vanished  like  a  breath.  All 
that  dark  weary  anxiety  came  flooding  back  upon  his  face,  a 
drowning  wave. 

Then  he  jerked  himself  erect,  went  forward,  hands  out- 
stretched. His  high  clear  voice  rang  out 

"Joel,  boy!  Glad  to  see  you.  Here,  Donny,  take  his 
horse  for  him.  Welcome  home!" 


CHAPTER    THREE 

UNCLE  Joel!  No  royal  guest  was  ever  welcomed  more 
joyfully.  Father  grasped  his  hands  and  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder.  The  little  boys  hurled  themselves  upon  him 
with  hugs  and  yelps  of  eager  delight.  There  was  never  any- 
body so  wonderful  as  Uncle  Joel.  Just  when  you  thought 
him  far  away  in  Paris  or  California  or  South  America,  he 
would  come  storming  in,  with  the  pockets  of  his  greatcoat 
stuffed  with  gifts,  and  a  score  of  adventures  on  his  tongue. 
He  was  only  ten  years  younger  than  Father,  and  Father  was 
nearly  forty,  which  was  crowding  Methuselah,  but  you 
could  never  look  on  Joel  without  a  thrill.  The  thrill  of  his 
youth,  the  high-pitched  insolent  splendor  which  was  as  much 
a  part  of  him  as  the  laugh  in  his  gay  eyes,  the  ring  in  his 
loud  gay  voice.  He  was  supposed  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  Boston 
bank,  learning  the  business,  but  you  could  never  see  Uncle 
Joel  in  a  sagging  linen  coat  and  a  faded  eye-shade.  Never. 
He  was  as  one  predestined,  set  apart,  to  prance  through  the 
world  on  a  mettlesome  steed,  a  lordly  cavalier.  Even  as  he 
dashed  headlong  from  your  sight,  his  bold,  merry  spirit 
called  back  to  you,  echoing  down  the  years.  No.  The  dingy 
desk,  the  drudging  hours,  were  not  for  Uncle  Joel. 

Now  he  threw  his  arms  around  his  elder  brother.  He 
tossed  his  costly  hat  on  the  ground,  put  both  unabashed  arms 
around  Aunty,  and  planted  a  vigorous  kiss  upon  her  withered 
cheek.  Aunty  attempted  a  shocked  but  unconvincing  sniff. 
He  romped  with  the  little  boys,  he  bowed  low  before 
Mercy,  even  while  he  pulled  her  shining  braids  and  pinched 
her  chin.  Only  John  Stafford  looked  on  his  brother,  his 


THE    FATHER  33 

Benjamin,  without  eagerness,  without  delight,  but  with  a 
great  anxious  love  and  fear. 

The  sunset  faded.  The  little  boys  went  reluctantly  to 
bed.  Father  led  Uncle  Joel  into  his  study,  and  the  two  men 
faced  each  other.  The  younger  face,  so  reckless,  so  insolent, 
clouded  swiftly. 

"No,  John,  I'm  not  doing  as  well  with  my  investments 
as  I'd  hoped.  Yes,  to  be  sure  you  let  me  have  that  three 
thousand  last  spring.  I  was  certain  I'd  double  it  by  now. 
But  the  fact  is " 

"What  were  your  investments,  Joel?" 

"Why,  there  were  several  of  them.  They  promised  huge 
returns.  But  by  fiend's  luck,  they've  all  gone  by  the  board. 
I've  been  forced  to — to  borrow  money  in  order  to  keep 
my  footing,  till  I  can — realize " 

"Just  what  were  the  investments,  Joel?" 

All  at  once,  Uncle  Joel  flared  up  like  a  rocket. 

"Oh,  if  you're  bound  you'll  push  me  to  the  wall!  I  took 
a  long  chance  and  that  started  the  trouble.  Trying  to  recoup, 
I  lost  every  copper.  But  I  was  sure  I  couldn't  lose  a  third 
time.  I — my  luck  turned,  I  tell  you.  I'm  flat  broke.  And 
what  the  bank  will  say " 

"You  mean  that  you  borrowed  from  the  bank.  How 
much?" 

Joel  glared  up  with  stricken  eyes.  For  all  his  insolent 
young  splendor,  he  looked  younger  now  than  little  Thomas. 
And  his  brother's  heart  melted  within  him. 

"Never  mind,  Joel,  tell  me.  In  round  numbers,  what 
does  it  come  to?  Your  losses  at  faro,  and  the  lottery  shares, 
and  all  of  it." 

"Oh,  nine  thousand,  or  thereabouts.  Not  a  cent  less." 

For  a  minute,  John  Stafford  was  too  stunned  to  speak. 

"Joel,  you  can't  have  lost  all  that!  Why,  it's  more  than 
our  whole  estate.  You  know  it  has  taken  all  I  could  earn,  to 


34  THE    FATHER 

pay  off  father's  debts.  I'm  still  owing  the  Salem  firms  for 
their  losses  on  the  Semiramis " 

"The  Semiramis!  And  she  sank  in  '36!  For  God's  sake, 
don't  rake  up  all  that  ancient  history.  Keep  your  eyes  on 
the  hole  I'm  in.  I  tell  you,  I've  got  to  have  the  money. 

And  here  you  yammer  away  about  paying  Father's 

debts!  Father's  in  his  grave.  He's  not  the  one  who's  facing 
ruin." 

"Joel,  you  know  I'll  do  everything  I  can " 


"If  you  didn't  throw  away  so  much  time  and  money  on 

your  demented  notions  about  freeing  slaves You're  one 

of  the  ablest  editors  in  America.  Yet  here  you  waste  your 
time,  you  make  a  laughing  stock  of  yourself,  in  your  absurd 
Intelligence,  When  you  know  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope ! " 

Father  pulled  himself  together. 

"Steady,  Joel.  We'll  manage,  somehow.  You  can  depend 
on  me.  You  know  that.  Every  time." 

Joel's  white  face  flushed  with  swift  relief.  He  leaned 
back  with  a  long  shivering  sigh. 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  I  was  a  beast,  to  say  what  I  did.  I 
might  have  known  that  you'd  stand  by.  You  always  do." 

He  leaned  toward  his  elder  brother.  But  John  Stafford 
thrust  him  back  with  a  stern  question. 

"Joel,  what  about  that  girl?  Beautiful,  gentle  creature! 
She  never  asks  for  you.  She  has  her  pride.  But  when  I  see 
her,  when  I  see  the  way  she  looks  at  me,  it  makes  me  sick 
at  heart." 

"Oh,  it  does,  does  it?  Then  maybe  you  can  guess  what 
the  thought  of  her  does  to  me.  Love  her?  I  love  the  ground 
she  walks  on.  But  she's  made  of  steel,  I  tell  you.  Steel.  Of 
course,  her  father  started  it  all.  'Go  out  into  the  world,  and 
prove  yourself  a  true  Stafford,  worthy  of  your  high  name,' 
he  said  to  me.  There  he  stood,  in  his  fine  clothes,  with  his 
gold-headed  cane,  and  his  jaw  set  like  the  everlasting  hills, 


THE    FATHER  35 

and  glowered  at  me.  The  beggar  on  horseback  he  is!  But 
I  don't  mind  him.  He's  easily  handled,  for  back  of  all  that 
bluster  he's  an  honorable  old  fellow.  He  knows  that  he'd 
be  nobody  to-day  if  it  hadn't  been  for  us  Staffords.  And 
there's  a  streak  of  softness  in  him,  every  time.  But  Evelina! 
She's  steel,  I  tell  you,  she's  steel  to  the  core." 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  that  she'd  hold  me  back,  even  though  her  father 
had  given  way  completely.  'My  father  has  spoken  for  me,' 
she  said,  'I  do  not  pledge  myself  to  a  spoiled  boy,  Joel.'  So 
little  and  slim  and  light,  I  could  break  her  with  my  finger. 
Hard?  Worse.  Cruel.  And  yet " 

"Yet,  if  you  love  her  so,  how  can  you  take  such  mad 
chances  ?" 

"If  you  want  to  know,  it  was  for  her  that  I  took  this  last 
chance.  I  knew  well  enough  that  I  was  running  the  devil's 
own  risk.  But  I'm  mad  for  her,  I  tell  you " 

He  stood  up,  trembling. 

John  Stafford  put  his  hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder. 

"Right,  Joel.  I'll  see  you  through.  I'll  manage." 

A  leaden  weariness  darkened  his  eyes.  But  his  voice  held 
itself  to  gentleness.  "Yes,  I'll  manage.  I've  got  to." 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

TVTERCY  ROSE  was  dressing  for  Wednesday  evening 
-*■*•■■  prayer-meeting.  Now  for  the  proper  damsel  of  that 
day,  prayer-meeting  called  for  second-best  from  bonnet  to 
slippers.  First-best  was  for  Sunday  morning  alone.  Hence 
her  pantalettes  were  not  embroidered,  merely  tucked,  and 
her  hat  was  a  sedate  ribboned  Leghorn.  Instead  of  the  thread 
of  tiny  pearls  that  had  been  her  mother's  and  the  Chantilly 
shawl  from  Grandmother's  lace  chest,  she  wore  a  flat  gold 
locket  and  an  amber  Canton  scarf  with  wreaths  of  wisteria, 
of  fading  lilac-blue.  Her  second-best  slippers  had  wide  rib- 
bon ties  which  Aunt  Celestia  had  cut  out  of  her  old  black 
lute-string,  instead  of  stiff  new  rat-tail  strings.  They  were 
not  dependable,  those  wide  and  elegant  ribbons,  for  the 
silk  was  old,  and  even  a  mild  tug  would  snap  them.  But 
they  flapped  elegantly  on  her  slender  feet. 

The  locket,  though,  was  disappointing.  In  an  absent- 
minded  hour,  her  father  had  bought  it  for  her  in  Boston, 
and  the  wicked  jeweler  had  cheated  him  with  a  thinly 
plated  object  which  soon  betrayed  its  base  foundation.  Partly 
that  was  Thomas's  fault.  Through  weary  hours  in  meeting, 
Thomas  had  cut  his  first  teeth  on  that  locket.  He  still 
chewed  it  in  moments  of  stress.  More  than  once,  Mercy  had 
felt  alarmed  lest  the  verdigris  might  work  him  grave  injury. 
But  so  far  Thomas's  insides  had  proved  of  sterner  stuff. 

She  clasped  the  locket,  and  viewed  herself  in  the  dim  old 
mirror  with  chastened  approval.  Really,  she  looked  quite 
ladylike.  You'd  never  dream  what  a  hoodlum  she  had  been 
that  very  afternoon.  Hoodlum  was  Aunty's  word,  and  it  was 


THE    FATHER  37 

only  too  accurate.  "But  I  don't  care.  Not  a  mite!"  Dark 
scarlet  burned  in  her  cheeks.  "Just  let  that  little  scamp  say 
Black  Abolitionist  again,  then  watch  me!" 

It  was  Seth  as  usual  who  had  started  things.  Seth,  sent 
forth  all  scrubbed  and  garnished  for  his  Latin  lesson,  had 
returned  betimes,  roaring  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  and  wear- 
ing the  aspect  of  one  who  has  fought  with  wild  beasts  at 
Ephesus,  and  come  out  a  bad  second. 

"Seth!  If  you  haven't  been  fighting  again!"  Mercy  took 
her  hands  out  of  the  cooky  dough,  and  rushed  to  him. 

"Here,  stand  by  the  sink Goodness,  it  isn't  just  your 

nose  that's  bleeding,  it's  that  front  tooth Hold  still!" 

She  snatched  out  the  hapless  little  milk-tooth  with  a  stern 
finger.  "Never  mind,  you  had  to  lose  it,  anyhow.  Oh,  how 
can  you  be  so  quarrelsome " 

"I  ain't  quarrelsome!  I  didn't  start  nothin'!  Josiah 
Baynes,  the  big  bully,  he  comes  snoopin'  out  of  Preston's 
lane,  and  hollers  after  me:  'Seth's  pa's  a  Black  Republican, 
a  Black  Nabolitionist,  a  Black  Republican!'  And  I  says, 
'Say  that  again  and  I'll  bang  your  snoot  for  you '  " 

"Seth!" 

"Never  mind,  Aunty,  that  isn't  really  swearing.  So  he 
called  Father  a  Black  Abolitionist,  did  he?  What  did  he 
say  then?" 

"He  says  it  all  over  again.  'Black  Republican — Black 

Republican !'  And  I  says,  'Do  you  want  it?'  And  he 

hollers,  'Try  and  do  it!'  And  I  give  him  one  good  bust. 
But  he  comes  back  and  gives  me  a  smack  on  the  jaw,  that 
knocks  me  flat.  Then  he  scoots  off,  and  yells  back,  'Tell 
your  pa  we're  fixin'  for  to  run  him  out — run  him  out — 
run  him  out — !'  " 

"H'm.  He  said  folks  would  run  Father  out,  did  he?" 
Mercy  took  off  her  apron,  washed  the  flour  from  her 
hands.   Then  she  tied  on  her  shade  hat,   snatched   down 


38  THE    FATHER 

Aunty's  black  crape  dolman,  with  the  long  sad  weepers, 
drew  on  her  long  lace  mitts. 

"Mercy  Rose  Stafford!  What  are  you  up  to?" 

"I'm  going  to  call  on  Josiah  Baynes,  and  pass  the  com- 
pliments of  the  day.  Want  to  come  along,  Seth?" 

"Goody,  goody!"  Joyously  comprehending,  Seth  fol- 
lowed at  her  heels.  A  minute  later,  Josiah,  chanting  of  his 
prowess  to  an  admiring  audience,  beheld  the  approach  of 
Fate.  Wild-eyed,  he  dropped  his  recitative  midway,  and 
scuttled  up  a  near-by  tree.  Alas,  it  was  a  frail  young  maple, 
and  before  he  could  descend,  his  enemy  was  upon  him. 

"Get  down  from  that  tree." 

"I  won't." 

"Get  down  quick,  young  man.  Unless  you  want  me  to 
come  up  after  you." 

"You  can't.  You're  just  a  girl " 

Mercy's  hat  went  one  way,  Aunty's  dolman  the  other. 
With  a  flying  leap,  she  caught  the  lowest  branch,  and 
swung  her  weight  on  it.  This  was  the  last  move  that  Josiah 
expected.  With  a  horrified  squeal,  he  bounced  off  the 
branch,  precisely  as  if  he  had  bounced  off  a  springboard. 

He  lit  on  his  feet,  but  before  he  could  start  to  run  Mercy 
had  gripped  him  firmly  by  one  large  tender  ear. 

"Don't  you  dast  touch  me!  Don't  you  dast  smack  me! 
I'll  tell  my  paw  on  you " 

"You  need  not.  I  shall  tell  him  myself,  if  I  think  best." 
Mercy's  fingers  were  soft  as  silk,  but  they  held  that 
crimson  ear  with  a  merciless  grip.  "March,  now." 

Mercy  trod  demurely  up  the  lane.  On  one  side  there 
dragged  and  wailed  and  fought  Josiah.  On  the  other  danced 
and  shouted  the  cruelly  joyful  Seth.  Straight  on  went 
Mercy,  straight  into  the  clump  of  little  boys,  who  a  moment 
since  had  gazed  in  admiration  on  their  Goliath,  now,  alas, 


THE    FATHER  39 

in  thrall  beneath  a  woman's  brutal  thumb.  They  started  to 
run,  but  Mercy  motioned  them  back. 

"Stay  here,  boys.  Josiah  has  something  to  say  to  you." 

"I  won't " 

"Josiah  is  sorry  he  spoke  so  rudely  to  Seth.  Say  it,  Josiah." 

"I  won't,  I  tell  you." 

"Say  it." 

Josiah  began  to  blubber. 

"I  have  plenty  of  time,  Josiah.  We'll  stay  here  till  sup- 
per-time, if  you  like." 

The  perfidious  little  boys  began  to  squeak  and  gibber 
with  delight.  They  danced  and  circled  around  Josiah,  they 
jeered  and  hooted. 

Mercy  stood,  an  inexorable  Patience  on  her  monument. 

"Listen,  Mercy."  Seth  stopped,  paled.  "There's  a  whole 
parcel  of  folks,  coming  up  Stafford  Hill.  They'll  all  see 
you " 

Mercy  turned  still  paler. 

"Folks  coming — and  they'll  see Oh!   And  won't 

they  stare ! "  She  quaked.  Her  mouth  grew  dry  with  terror. 
But  grimly  she  stood  her  ground. 

"I  think  I  see  your  father  coming,  Josiah.  And  Parson 
Avery.  And  Professor  Ames,  from  the  'Cademy " 

Josiah  turned  white  to  his  white  eye-winkers. 

"Pa  says  he'll  lick  me,  next  fight  I  get  into Oh, 

turn  me  loose!" 

Mercy  beckoned  the  little  boys.  Wan  silence  fell  upon 
them. 

"Want  to  apologize  now,  Josiah?  Say,  CI  beg  your  par- 
don, Seth.'  " 

Josiah  squirmed  and  mumbled  and  snuffled.  Finally  he 
screwed  out  the  loathed  words. 

"Now,  one  thing  more.  Say,  'I  take  back  what  I  said 
about  your  father '  " 


40  THEFATHER 

"I  won't!" 

"Very  well.  We'll  wait  right  here." 

"Take  it  back,  take  it  back " 

Mercy  let  go. 

Down  the  path  shot  Josiah  like  a  tow-headed  bullet. 
After  him  pelted  a  string  of  taunting  small  fry.  By  Provi- 
dential chance,  Adoniram  and  Thomas  had  trotted  up  the 
lane,  just  in  time  for  the  climax.  Round  and  round  Mercy 
they  pranced,  three  ecstatic  young  dervishes. 

"Boys,  stop  it.  This  minute.  Not  one  word  to  Father. 
Mind,  now!" 

The  faithful  subsided. 

Mercy  then  went  home,  to  give  humble  ear  to  Aunt 
Celestia's  observations  concerning  unwomanly  females  who 
would  cause  their  remotest  forbears  to  rise  from  their  graves 
for  horror  and  for  shame.  Nobly  the  little  boys  kept  silence. 
At  least,  until  Mercy  had  taken  herself  demurely  to  prayer- 
meeting.  Then  mortal  bonds  cracked  under  the  strain. 

"And  she  stood  there,  and  held  him  tight  by  his  big  red 

ear "  thus  Thomas.  "And  says  she,  '  'Pologize.  And 

take  back  what  you  said  about  Father.'  And  he  done  it. 
Gosh,  but  he  hipered  out  of  there!  He  didn't  lose  one 
second!" 

"So  Josiah  called  me  a  Black  Republican.  And  Mercy 
made  him  take  it  back."  Mr.  Stafford  tried  to  laugh.  But 
he  was  preposterously  hurt.  So  Mercy  was  ashamed  of  his 
profound  convictions,  ashamed  of  the  faith  that  was  as 
his  breath  of  life! 

All  his  small  world  stood  against  him,  he  thought,  wryly. 
Aunty,  patient,  loyal,  tranquilly  contemptuous;  Joel,  his 
Benjamin,  who,  trapped  in  the  labyrinth  of  his  own  blun- 
ders, could  pause  in  the  very  face  of  hazard,  to  jibe;  Emer- 
son, his  life-long  friend,  who,  for  all  his  affection,  yet  held 
aloof.  Nobody  had  ever  understood.  Not  even  his  young 


THE    FATHER  41 

wife.  She  had  sat  by,  her  babies'  silky  heads  nestled  on  her 
deep  young  breast,  and  she  had  wondered  at  him  and  adored 
him  and  never,  in  her  beautiful  and  beloved  days,  had  she 
understood  him.  No.  Not  one  of  all  his  house  would  ever 
understand. 

Meanwhile,  Mercy  and  Lucinda  sat  as  demure  as  two 
ringleted,  hoopskirted  angels  in  the  high-shouldered  Staf- 
ford pew.  Mercy  had  spent  an  hour  memorizing  her  chap- 
ter, but  it  grew  dim  before  the  vision  across  the  aisle.  For 
there,  seated  in  a  calm  but  tremulous  row,  she  beheld 
Eliphalet  Kimball,  Amariah  Prescott,  and  Lemuel  G. 
Crowther.  To  be  sure,  she  never  glanced  their  way.  Even  a 
fleeting  glimmer  would  have  been  most  immodest.  But 
inwardly  she  was  planning  what  would  happen  as  soon  as 
the  benediction  was  spoken.  Although  she  and  Lucinda  had 
come  to  meeting  together,  they  would  not  thus  depart.  Far 
from  it.  Directly  after  Parson  had  dismissed  them,  Lucinda 
would  giggle  and  simper.  She  would  seize  on  the  arm  of 
Rodolphus  Applebee,  one  of  the  stuttering  Applebees  from 
North  Fitchburg,  before  he'd  had  time  to  gasp  out  his  in- 
vitation, and  away  they  would  go,  down  the  dark  maple 
lanes  to  Luanda's  house.  Meanwhile  three  bashful  cavaliers 
would  stand  before  Mercy.  Small  use  to  choose  between 
them,  she  thought,  dismally.  Eliphalet  would  turn  red  as 
a  turkey  gobbler,  and  blurt  out:  "May I — haveth'honor  t'see 
y'home?"  in  a  stern  but  skittish  bass.  Amariah  would  choke 
and  fall  over  his  own  large  feet.  Lemuel  would  fix  his 
pale  blue  eyes  on  hers,  and  the  sweat  would  stream  down 
his  cheeks,  and  he  would  grab  out  a  large  red  handkerchief, 
thus  releasing  a  veritable  cloud  of  bergamot,  and  look  like 
a  terrified  but  resolute  rabbit.  But  Lemuel  was  the  best  of 
the  lot.  It  might  as  well  be  Lemuel. 

Prayer-meeting  went  on  and  on.  At  last  the  final  hymn 


42  THE    FATHER 

was  sung.  The  neighborly  groups  chatted,  then  went  their 
ways.  Lucinda  and  her  Rodolphus  had  departed,  leaving 
only  a  trail  of  giggle,  a  wake  of  stutter,  on  the  starlit  air. 
Lemuel,  shivering  but  unflinching,  was  walking  close  to 
her  side.  There  burned  in  Lemuel's  eyes  an  honest  young 
devotion. 

"M-Mercy  Rose " 

Mercy  turned  and  looked  at  him.  In  the  shadows  his 
roach  loomed,  magnificent.  For  an  instant,  it  was  as  if 
there  flashed  on  his  brow  the  glint  of  a  silver  casque.  And 
for  once  in  his  mortal  days,  he  was  not  chewing  sassafras. 

"What  is  it,  Lemuel  ?" 

Then  Lemuel,  the  blood  beating  high  in  his  honest  boy 
heart,  his  hot  hands  shaking,  put  both  his  warm  clumsy  arms 
around  her,  and  touched  his  lips  an  instant  to  her  cheek. 
With  the  movement,  he  set  free  an  all  but  deafening  blast 
of  bergamot.  But,  mysteriously,  he  ceased  right  then  to  be 
a  lumpy  cub,  and  became  by  virtue  of  some  kindly  necro- 
mancy the  Prince,  the  very  Knight  of  Dream.   .  .  . 

"What  can  keep  Mercy  so  long?  Prayer-meeting  must 
have  been  dismissed  an  hour  ago." 

Aunty  sniffed.  A  sniff  of  chilly  wisdom. 

"H'm.  You  let  her  go  yourself." 

"Why  not?  Surely  she's  safe  there!" 

"Safe  enough.  Too  safe." 

"What  can  you  mean,  Aunty?" 

"Haven't  you  seen  that  great  sawney  of  a  Lemuel  G. 
Crowther,  making  sheep's  eyes  at  her?" 

"Lemuel  G.  Crowther!  The  last  time  I  laid  eyes  on 
him,  he  was  hanging  by  the  band  of  his  petticoats  to  Deacon 
Kimball's  cherry  tree.  Right  over  the  brook,  and  bawling 
bloody  murder.  I  hauled  him  down,  but  I  laughed  so,  I 
all  but  dropped  him  into  the  brook." 


THE    FATHER  43 

"Lemuel  isn't  hanging  from  the  cherry  tree  now.  He's 
hanging  around  Mercy.  Every  minute." 

"The  great  simpleton!  Mercy  will  make  short  shrift  of 
him." 

"Maybe  so.  Maybe  not." 
A  queer  shiver  ran  down  Father's  neck. 
"Nonsense.  She  wouldn't  even  look  at  him.  She's  nothing 
but  a  baby." 

"She's  close  on  sixteen.  Her  mother  married  you  when 
she  wasn't  quite  seventeen." 

Father  shrugged,  indifferent  and  amused.  He  picked  up 
his  new  Atlantic  World.  He  did  not  turn  a  page  for  per- 
haps the  next  half  hour. 

Finally  Mercy's  light  step  came  up  the  portico.  Her 
father  glanced  up  casually. 

He  felt  her  slim  little  body  lean  against  him.  He  slid 
his  arm  around  her,  still  casually.  He  looked  into  her  grave 
exquisite  little  face.  The  face  of  Kilmeny,  returned  from 
a  far  country,  its  radiance  still  upon  her. 

His  heart  shut  like  a  fist  with  a  wrench  of  rage  and 
terror.  Bitter,  pitiful  father-terror.  Here  she  stood,  her  soft 
hand  folded  in  his  own,  her  cheek  to  his.  And  she  might 
have  been  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Father  did  not  fall  asleep  readily  that  night.  It  was  past 
three  when  he  finally  slipped  off.  He  awoke  in  the  vague 
dawn  to  the  clink  of  pebbles  on  his  window,  the  sound  of  a 
low  hurrying  voice. 

"John!  John!  Come  down,  quick.  It's  Joel.  Quick,  I 
say!" 

Father  ran  down  silently.  In  the  gray  light,  Joel's  face 
was  pinched  and  drawn  with  fear. 

"The  bank  has  found  out.  Frank  Upham  got  wind  of  it, 
and  warned  me.  What  can  I  do,  John?  Help  me." 


44  THE    FATHER 

"The  bank — Joel!  What  do  you  mean?  What  have 
you  done?" 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  Father  had  turned  and  was  stum- 
bling up  the  stairs.  He  snatched  his  gold  belt  from  the 
dresser,  tore  down  again. 

"Here  is  every  cent  in  this  house,  Joel.  I'll  rush  all  I 
can  get  from  the  bank  here,  to  you,  and  get  it  off  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  Where  are  you  going,  boy?" 

"How  do  I  know?  I've  got  to  get  away,  that's  all  I 
know.  I'll  pay  back  the  money.  Tell  them  that,  will  you? 
Tell  them  I — tell  them  we'll  make  good.  But  I  must  be 
off  now.  God  bless  you,  John.  Good-by." 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

FATHER  was  going  traveling!  He  would  take  Button 
and  the  chaise  and  drive  to  Concord,  and  visit  Mr. 
Emerson,  and  stay  two  days  and  two  nights!  This  was  a 
notable  event.  For  while  Mr.  Emerson  stopped  at  their 
house  whenever  his  lecture  trips  brought  him  near,  Father 
rarely  found  time  to  go  to  Concord.  His  work  for  the 
Intelligence  and  the  management  of  his  farms  kept  him 
close  at  home.  But  at  nineteen,  Mr.  Emerson  had  been  head 
usher  in  Dr.  Ripley's  school  at  Waltham.  To  Father,  aged 
twelve,  this  gentle  quizzical  young  tutor  had  embodied  all 
wisdom.  In  every  real  crisis,  Father  turned  to  Mr.  Emerson 
for  encouragement  as  well  as  for  advice. 

The  little  boys  stood  around  large-eyed  and  wistful  and 
watched  Father  make  ready.  But  only  Mercy  would  go. 
Father  was  grimly  definite  on  that  point.  He  and  Mr. 
Emerson  had  urgent  matters  to  talk  over,  and  he  would 
have  no  time  to  fish  Seth  out  of  Concord  Pond,  or  to 
plaster  mud  on  Adoniram's  bee-stings,  or  to  sit  up  nights 
with  Thomas  and  the  croup  and  the  goose-grease. 

From  this  decree,  there  was  no  hope  of  yielding.  But 
while  the  little  boys  were  mournful,  Aunty  was  sniffy. 
Extremely  sniffy. 

"Just  like  a  man.  Thinks  he's  got  to  go  consult  with 
Mr.  Emerson,  every  whip-stitch,  or  the  world  will  quit 
going  around.  Thinks  his  Concord  friends  hung  up  the 
sun  and  moon.  Yet  not  one  of  'em  is  even  halfway  ortho- 
dox. Mr.  Emerson  started  out  to  be  a  middling  good 
preacher,  but  he  must  go  traipsing  off  to  Italy  and  all  such 
Papish   countries,   and   he   came   back  all   led   astray,   and 


46  THE    FATHER 

far's  I  can  see  he  has  turned  out  no  better  than  an  infidel. 
And  Nate  Hawthorne's  folks,  I  knew  well.  Fine,  depend- 
able people  as  ever  trod  shoe-leather.  But  look  at  him! 
Lets  his  good  Custom-house  job  go,  and  drizzles  around, 
writing  sinful  novels!  As  for  Horace  Mann,  your  father 
bows  down  to  him  like  he's  the  Lord's  Anointed.  Yet  he's 
nothing  but  a  schoolmaster,  and  a  flighty  schoolmaster,  at 
that.  Mind  you,  the  selectmen  gave  him  the  finest  office  in 
all  Boston.  Accept  it?  Not  he.  He  posts  off  to  that  muddy 
little  Ohio  town,  and  sets  up  a  college  right  in  the  wilder- 
ness. Latin  and  Greek,  for  folks  that  are  so  torn-down  poor, 
they've  got  to  scratch  gravel,  so's  to  earn  corn-meal  and 
side-meat.  Pity  knows,  he'd  ought  to  put  a  plow-handle  in 
their  hands,  instead  of  a  parcel  of  pagan  books.  And  Mrs. 
Mann  goes  right  along  with  him,  down  to  that  wilderness, 
and  pretends  she  likes  it!  Poor  deluded  woman!  I  tell  you, 
Mercy  Rose,  men-folks  are  a  terrible  responsibility." 

Mercy  was  not  greatly  burdened  by  this  warning.  She  was 
rosy  with  satisfaction.  It  was  thrilling  to  put  on  her  shirred 
sky-blue  calash  and  her  gray  taffeta  with  the  pinked  ruffles, 
and  her  prunella  boots,  and  go  traveling  with  Father.  But 
she  was  puzzled,  dismayed,  even.  Never  had  she  seen  her 
father  so  worn  and  tense,  so  harassed,  so  irritable. 

"Well!  Can  it  be  that  we  are  actually  ready, — at  last? 
Listen,  Aunty,  we  are  not  starting  for  the  North  Pole. 
We  do  not  need  provisions  for  six  months.  Now,  my  sons, 

obey  your  Aunt Where  is  Thomas,  pray  tell?    Find 

him,  Seth,  and  be  quick  about  it Oh,  tell  him  good-by 

for  us.  I'll  not  wait  another  minute." 

Button  stepped  off  briskly.  Two  doleful  faces  and  one 
stern  disapproving  one  watched  them  down  Stafford  Hill. 

Once  started,  Father  relaxed  a  shade.  But  only  a  shade. 
With  steadfast  will,  with  hard  determination,  he  was  chart- 
ing  a   long   course,   through   clouds   of   uncertainty,   past 


THE    FATHER  47 

shoals  of  indecision.  The  menace  of  poverty,  the  loss  of 
opportunity,  failure  in  the  eyes  of  his  small  world;  for  the 
sake  of  his  great  aim,  he  could  face  them  all,  without  a 
whimper.  But  when  he  thought  of  his  children,  his  trusting 
little  sons,  his  daughter,  child  of  his  heart:  could  he  ask 
them  to  face  this  strange,  difficult  new  life  with  him? 

He  glanced  at  Mercy. 

Mercy  wore  her  Kilmeny  look.  She  had  not  looked  his 
way.  She  had  not  said  one  word. 

Father's  eyes  grew  baffled  and  angry.  Always  Mercy's 
door  had  stood  wide  open  to  him.  To-day  her  door  was 
shut.  And  out  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  known  world, 
it  must  needs  be  shut  by  the  large  freckled  paw  of  that  un- 
speakable oaf,  Lemuel  G.  Crowther. 

Then  over  Father's  drawn  face  there  came  a  slow, 
consoling  grin. 

"There  is  always  a  silver  lining,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Even  though  I  must  sell  all  I  possess,  to  help  Joel,  although 
I'm  taking  my  Mercy  away  from  her  home  and  from  all 
the  small  womanly  advantages — at  least  I  am  taking  her 
away  from  Lemuel  G.  Crowther!  And  once  I  get  her 
away,  she  will  forget  him,  fast  enough!  She  shall  have  a 
chance  at  youth,  my  good  dear  child,  she  shall  hold  fast  to 
her  girlhood  a  while  longer.  To  save  my  daughter  from 
such  a  ridiculously  early  marriage,  a  marriage  to  such  a 

hapless  young  booby Well!   Even  such  a  calamity  as 

mine  has  its  compensations." 

Something  stirred  in  the  straw  under  the  chaise  seat. 
There  came  a  muffled  but  terrific  sneeze. 

"My  goodness  gracious!  That  sneeze  came  from  right 
under- foot! Thomas  Chalmers  Stafford!" 

Red  and  choking,  out  crawled  the  stowaway.  Father 
seized  a  fat  leg,  hauled  out  his  youngest,  and  set  him  right- 
side-up  in  the  road. 


48  THE    FATHER 

"My  son,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  March  home.  At  once. 
Tell  Aunty  that  you  are  to  go  to  bed  for  the  rest  of  the 
day." 

"Yeth,  thir." 

"You  are  to  have  bread  and  water  for  dinner.  And 
bread  and  water  for  supper." 

"Yeth,  thir." 

Thomas's  corn-silk  head  drooped.  But  he  took  it  like  a 
soldier.  He  put  up  his  hands. 

"Please  give  me  your  pond-lily  carpet  bag.  I  bringed  my 
nighty  in  it.  I  thought  maybe — maybe  I'd  need  it  to-night." 

Father  dug  through  the  straw  till  he  found  the  pond- 
lily  bag,  a  dingy  relic  adorned  with  large  grimy  lilies  and 
poison-green  leaves.  As  he  set  it  down,  the  bag  yawped 
like  a  catfish.  To  the  casual  glance  appeared  Thomas's 
woolly  yellow  drawers,  a  Gargantuan  hair-brush,  his  Tes- 
tament, three  apples  and  a  half-eaten  chunk  of  pound  cake, 
and  the  somewhat  disarranged  innards  of  Seth's  pocket 
rifle,  which  had  given  up  the  ghost  last  Fourth  of  July. 
When  journeying  through  savage  country,  it  is  well  to  go 
armed  and  well  prepared. 

Father  gazed  at  the  blue  distant  hills.  Life  is  hard  on  a 
conscientious  parent  who  is  bedeviled  by  an  untimely  sense 
of  humor. 

That  delay  before  execution  was  too  much.  Thomas 
gasped  aloud.  His  brown  eyes  popped.  Beads  of  sweat  gath- 
ered across  his  fat  little  nose. 

"Oh,  Father!  Oh,  sister  Mercy!  Oh,  I  want  to  go,  so 
awful  bad!  And  I  haven't  been  anywhere  for  years  and 
years,  and  I've  been  a  good  boy  for  ever  and  ever  so 
long " 

That  was  the  end  of  Mercy.  Little  Thomas  was  so  very 
small,  so  very  fat,  so  pitiful  in  his  pleading!  Little  Thomas, 
to  walk  back  alone,  those  four  long  hilly  miles! 


THE    FATHER 


49 


"Oh,  please,  Father!  His  legs  are  so  short,  and  he's 
so  pudgy,  and  maybe  a  bear  or  an  Indian — or — or — gyp- 
sies  " 

Father  did  not  turn  his  head. 

Thomas  took  a  fresh  grip  on  himself.  He  swallowed  his 
tears,  swung  the  heavy  bag  over  his  shoulder,  and  set  off 
up  hill. 

Not  a  word  from  Father.  He  stood  looking  after  that 
chubby  malefactor,  trudging  grittily  on  his  way. 

Never  in   all   her  life   had   Mercy   questioned   Father's 

judgments.  But  now 

"Please,  Father!  He  can  sit  by  my  chair  at  dinner,  so  I 
can  pinch  him  if  he  starts  gobbling.  And  he  can  sleep 
with  me,  and  I'll  keep  him  scrubbed  up.  You  could  see  he'd 
tried  to  wash  his  ears.  There  was  a  clean  streak  right  back 

of  his  ears " 

"Thomas!" 

Thomas  wheeled  like  an  automaton. 
"Thomas,  your  sister  has  asked  me  to  overlook  this  dis- 
obedience. We  will  defer  your  punishment  till  we  return 
home.  Hop  in.  No,  stop  hugging  me.  Will  you  take  your 
feet  off  that  laprobe?  Don't  tickle  Button's  ears  with  the 
whip.   Nonsense,   you  can't  need  a  sandwich.   It's  barely 

nine  o'clock " 

Oh,  memorable  journey!  True,  they  ate  their  lunch  by 
the  roadside,  picnic  fashion.  But  they  slept  in  a  Boston 
hotel,  a  real  hotel,  exactly  as  if  they  were  honest-to-good- 
ness  travelers.  And  the  day  at  Mr.  Emerson's  promised  pure 
delight.  Noon  dinner  would  be  something  of  an  ordeal, 
though,  for  Mr.  Emerson  had  bidden  several  illustrious 
friends  to  meet  Father.  There  would  be  the  eminent  mer- 
chant-philanthropist from  Boston,  Mr.  Lucius  Searle,  tall, 
magisterial,  imperious.  There  would  be  Mr.  Horace  Mann, 
so  gracious,  so  gentle,  yet  ground  to  a  wire  edge,  so  des- 


5o  THE    FATHER 

perately  intent  upon  his  plans  for  his  struggling  little  col- 
lege, so  cruelly  tired.  There  would  be  Mr.  Alcott,  sound 
and  sweet  as  a  ripe  Spitzenberg  apple,  benign,  visionary, 
bland.  There  would  be  Mr.  Hawthorne,  who  gave  up  his 
good  steady  job  to  drizzle  around  and  write  novels.  .  .  . 

She  tied  Father's  stock  for  him,  she  scrutinized  him  as 
well  as  Thomas  with  a  stern  maternal  eye.  But  Father  was 
impeccable,  and  the  odor  of  sanctity  was  thick  upon  Thomas. 
He  had  not  stopped  with  washing  his  ears;  his  shining 
pinkness  appeared  not  only  scrubbed  but  scalded  and  scraped. 

Suddenly  shy,  she  did  not  go  downstairs  till  the  last 
moment.  When  she  slipped  in,  the  little  brother  clinging 
to  her  hand,  and  made  her  swooping  curtsey,  the  men  rose 
to  welcome  her,  but  they  did  not  greet  her  gayly.  They 
looked  on  her  with  the  tenderness,  the  reverence,  even,  that 
men  accord  the  daughter  who  struggles,  no  matter  how 
clumsily,  to  take  her  mother's  place. 

"Where  is  Nate?"  asked  Mr.  Mann. 

"I  suppose  he  had  one  of  his  panics.  Mr.  Hawthorne 
would  face  a  regiment  single-handed,  rather  than  a  room- 
ful of  company."  Mr.  Emerson,  lean,  stooped,  caustic,  gave 
his  faint  caustic  smile. 

The  dinner,  which  had  set  sail  upon  a  pleasant  sea  of 
light  talk,  suddenly  found  itself  grazing  reefs  of  argu- 
ment. 

"Why  this  haste,  Mr.  Stafford,  sir?"  Thus  the  majes- 
tical  Mr.  Searle.  "The  Almighty,  wise  men  tell  us,  gives 
centuries  to  the  perfection  of  His  slightest  creation.  Why 
then,  so  urge  on  this  reform " 

Father's  stock  shot  under  his  left  ear. 

"Because,  Sir,  we  Abolitionists  are  not  the  Almighty. 
We  are  not  trying  to  perfect,  but  to  abolish — to  abolish 
the  evil  which  our  ancestors  left  us,  their  vile  heritage. 
That  evil  had  its  roots  in  the  day  when  they  set  out  to 


THE    FATHER  51 

trade  rum  for  slaves,  to  debauch  the  North,  their  own 
land,  as  well  as  to  ruin  the  South " 

"Our  ancestors,  Sir?  I  ask  you  to  retract  that.  My  own 
were  never  guilty  of  that  vicious  trade." 

In  rushed  Mr.  Emerson  with  a  small  and  inefficient  olive 
branch. 

"Oh,  when  it  comes  to  that,  we're  all  tarred  with  the 
same  stick " 

"Not  all  of  us."  Mr.  Searle  held  grimly  to  his  point,  the 
autocrat  that  he  was.  "Moreover,  it  is  not  for  us  to  vaunt 
our  own  judgment  above  a  loftier  decree.  Slavery  has  always 
existed.  It  will  always  exist.  It  stands  before  our  eyes,  an 
eternal  punishment  to  an  erring  race " 

"While  we,  the  self-anointed  righteous,  profit  by  that 
punishment "  Father  choked. 

Mr.  Alcott  looked  across  at  him  with  shining,  kind  eyes, 
ineffably  complacent,  immutably  bland. 

"Education,  my  dear  Mr.  Stafford.  Education!  Light  in 
darkness.  There  lies  the  true  solution  to  these  problems. 
Inform  and  clarify  the  public  mind.  Replace  its  base  ideals 
with  loftier  motives " 

"Put  aside  the  question  of  slavery  till  we  have  freed 
those  who  lie  in  bonds  of  prisoning  thought."  Mr.  Emerson 
spoke  gently,  as  always.  But  Father  winced  under  that 
gentle   finality. 

Baffled,  defeated,  put  aside  like  a  blundering  child  by 
this  council  of  his  mild,  indulgent  elders,  Father  slumped 
back  into  his  chair. 

No.  Not  one  of  them  would  ever  realize.  Not  one  among 
them  would  ever  understand. 

Dinner  was  ended.  Up  rose  Mrs.  Emerson,  so  frail,  so 
gentle,  so  serene,  and  gathered  up  Thomas,  now  a  solid 
lump  of  sleep,  and  carried  him  to  her  own  room. 

"He  can  play  with  the  little  children  when  he  wakens," 


52  THE    FATHER 

she  told  Mercy,  gently.  "You  go  and  visit  with  the  Alcotts, 
dear.  They'll  be  so  glad  to  have  you.  Stay  to  supper,  if  you 
like." 

Away  ran  Mercy  to  the  beloved  Alcotts,  for  the  long 
afternoon.  Nowhere  in  all  her  world  would  she  ever  find 
such  wild  disorder,  such  threadbare  poverty,  such  golden 
welcome.  Louisa  was  at  home  for  a  two  days'  rest  from 
her  grinding  hard  teaching  in  Boston.  Dear  merry  Louisa, 
with  her  gaunt  tired  eyes  and  her  inky  fingers  and  her 
eager  clumsy  hands,  that  tried  always  to  do  every  loving 
service  for  you,  and  never  did  anything  just  right. 

Shining  with  hospitable  love,  the  family  welcomed 
Mercy.  May,  daubed  in  paint,  found  a  clamshell  and  before 
Mercy's  ravished  eyes  painted  for  her  a  tiny  landscape. 
Mrs.  Alcott  taught  her  a  new  embroidery  stitch.  And  after 
supper  Louisa,  bent  on  crowning  the  day  with  roses,  read 
aloud  a  chapter  from  her  new  novel;  a  harrowing  tale,  en- 
titled The  Maniac's  Bride.  No  wonder  that  Mercy  stayed 
on  and  on,  forgetting  even  little  Thomas  in  her  rare 
freedom. 

Finally  she  glanced  at  the  tall  clock. 

"Ten  o'clock!  My  gracious!  No,  no,  don't  come  with 
me.  I  know  every  step.  Good-night!" 

She  sped  away,  regardless  of  kind  protesting  voices.  She 
knew  the  paths  well.  But  as  she  raced  down  the  dark,  tree- 
shadowed  paths,  she  grew  bewildered.  "I  must  take  the  first 
turn  in  the  road,"  she  thought.  Now,  surely  this  was  the 
first  turn.  But  how  queer  and  unfamiliar  it  felt!  The 
wavering  shadows  baffled  her.  The  gravel  felt  strange  be- 
neath her  feet. 

She  looked  up.  To  the  east,  through  the  black  lace  of  the 
elms,  glimmered  a  waning  moon.  Across  it,  ghosts  from 
an  enchanter  fleeing,  blew  shreds  of  watery  mist.  At  her 


THE    FATHER  53 

feet,  like  tired  little  wraiths,  fluttered  the  autumn  leaves, 
all  their  brave  gold  and  scarlet  dimmed  in  that  pale  light 
to  pitiful  gray.  A  small  cold  fear  gripped  Mercy's  heart. 
By  day  these  woodland  roads  were  all  so  safe,  so  cheerful ! 
But  by  night.  .  .  . 

Something  stirred  in  the  hedge.  Something  dark,  yet  fit- 
fully seen  against  the  night.  Light  feet  prowled  deep  in 
the  hedge  shadow,  light  steps  crept  nearer,  nearer.  What 
was  that  sound,  so  eerie  on  the  thin  chill  air?  A  whimper? 
A  chuckle? 

Mercy  would  have  given  her  soul  to  run  and  scream. 
But  not  Mercy  Rose  Stafford.  Never. 

The  velvet  step  came  closer.  The  chuckle  broke  in  a 
whine,  a  wail.  .  .  . 

Mercy  tore  down  the  black  road  like  a  mad  thing.  She 
was  so  blind,  so  crazed  with  fear,  that  when  strong  hands 
caught  her,  and  a  kind  voice  spoke  with  quick  reassurance, 
she  could  not  even  hear.  She  did  not  scream.  But  she 
fought  like  a  little  tigress.  But  the  big  hands  drew  her  up 
and  planted  her  against  a  tree-trunk,  and  the  kind  voice 
spoke  on,  so  gently:  "Why,  it's  just  a  little  girl!  Whew, 
you  struck  out  like  a — a  gladiator!  My  child,  don't  be 
afraid.  Everybody  knows  me.  My  name  is  Hawthorne." 

"Oh-h!"  Mercy  clutched  a  moment  at  those  big  hands. 
Then,  very  disposedly,  she  smoothed  down  her  hoops,  and 
straightened  her  flapping  calash.  "I  regret  that  I  have  trou- 
bled you " 

She  stopped  on  a  gulp  that  threatened  to  engulf  her. 

"There,  don't  talk."  Hawthorne  fell  into  step  beside 
her.  He  was  as  gentle  as  her  own  father,  yet  as  aloof  now 
as  if  he  stood  upon  the  farthest  star.  "No  wonder  you  were 
alarmed.  That  wail  is  popularly  supposed  to  freeze  one's 
blood.  The  animal  is  young  Augustus  Seabury's  tame  lynx. 


54  THE    FATHER 

He  has  taught  it  to  trot  after  him  and  howl,  in  which  event 
he  gives  it  a  lump  of  sugar.  Hence  the  creature's  unwel- 
come attentions  to  you." 

Mercy  essayed  a  wan  giggle.  This  satisfied  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne. He  dropped  her  hand  and  went  cruising  off  down 
the  misty  lanes.  Having  done  his  Christian  duty,  he  would 
now  turn  to  his  own  diversions. 

"Anyway,  he's  as  good  as  gold,  to  take  me  home," 
Mercy  reflected.  But  in  a  few  minutes,  he  was  back  again. 
Without  a  word,  he  thrust  something  into  her  hand. 

It  was  a  handful  of  mint,  dew-wet,  spicy-fragrant. 

Mercy  gripped  it,  tight.  The  last  gulp  vanished  into 
limbo.  Any  other  man  would  have  spoken  on  and  on, 
with  soothing,  exasperating  reassurance.  But  this  sylvan 
shy  creature  knew  a  better  comforter  than  words.  The 
mystic  in  him  spoke  in  that  wild  healing  fragrance. 

Now  they  turned  into  Mr.  Emerson's  yard.  The  front 
door  opened.  Now  Mr.  Emerson,  his  clear,  quizzical  face 
lighted  by  the  tall  whale-oil  lamp  in  his  hand,  was  wel- 
coming them  in. 

"Come  right  in,  Mr.  Hawthorne.  Don't  look  apprehen- 
sive. No  company.  Just  ourselves." 

"Well."  Hawthorne  entered,  wary  as  a  stag.  He  shook 
hands  with  Father,  then  slid  past  the  two  men  and  settled 
himself  in  a  dusky  corner.  Only  his  hands  moved.  For  he 
had  pulled  a  handful  of  ribbon-grass,  and  as  he  sat  there, 
his  long  fingers  wove  and  wove.  Deftly,  absently,  they 
twisted  the  shreds  of  cream  and  emerald  and  dark  sea- 
green  into  a  strange  design.  It  was  as  though  he  wound 
the  threads  in  a  fantastic  arras.  Could  you  but  see  that  arras 
through  his  own  eyes,  what  weird  and  tragic  beauty!  A 
girl,  her  child  caught  high  in  both  frail  arms,  the  baby's 
fingers  tugging  at  the  broad  scarlet  A  on  the  mother's 


THE    FATHER  55 

breast.  A  boy's  face,  gay  as  a  young  Bacchus,  wreathed 
with  vine  leaves  that  could  not  quite  hide  the  leaf-like  ear. 

And  through  and  through  the  quiet  of  the  evening, 
Father  and  Mr.  Emerson  were  weaving,  too.  Only  they 
wove  with  slow,  inexorable  words.  And  with  those  words 
they  wove  the  cloth  of  destiny. 

Mercy  tried  to  keep  politely  awake.  But  she  was  leaden 
with  sleep.  The  voices  faded,  dimmed. 

"Well,  Stafford,  we  have  talked  this  over  from  A  to  Z. 
I  cannot  say  I'm  in  full  accord  with  your  plans.  But  you 
know  I  have  every  confidence  in  you,  and  since  you  seem 
determined  to  leave  Massachusetts  and  make  a  fresh 
start " 

"Precisely  what  I  mean  to  do,  Mr.  Emerson.  And  I 
shall  sell  my  land  here,  all  of  it,  and  emigrate  within  a 
month's  time.  Emigrate  to  Bakerstown,  Illinois.  It  is  a 
thriving  village  near  Springfield.  Deacon  Heber  Lyman  has 
just  returned  from  a  visit  to  his  twin  brother,  Timothy, 
who  has  settled  there.  He  tells  me  that  the  town  is  split 
into  two  camps,  the  abolitionists  and  the  anti-agitation  men. 
Not  pro-slavery,  this  second  group,  but  those  who  are  vio- 
lently opposed  to  any  agitation.  You  know.  The  cat- footed 
sort, — neither  afoot  nor  a'horseback.  For  a  while  they  had 
an  abolition  weekly  of  their  own,  but  when  Lovejoy  was 
murdered  and  his  press  destroyed  the  editor  got  scared  and 
fled  the  country.  So  I  shall  take  what  I  can  get  for  my 
farms,  and  for  the  home  place,  and  go.  Timothy  Lyman 
will  pick  out  a  small  farm  for  me  near  the  town.  I'll  buy 
that  abandoned  press  and  start  the  anti-slavery  weekly  again. 
That  will  give  us  our  bread  and  butter.  Then  I  shall  find 
good  helpers  to  run  the  farm.  The  outdoor  life  will  be  fine 
for  the  little  boys. 

"As  for  Mercy — for  Mercy,  I  realize  that  such  a  change 


56  THE    FATHER 

will  bring  its  trials.  At  all  events,  she  will  be  quite  as  well 
off  in  Illinois  for  the  present.  I  prefer  to  take  her  out  of 
certain — influences." 

"But  what  about  your  newspaper  work  here  with  the 
Intelligence " 

Father's  tired  face  blazed. 

"The  Intelligence?  Let  me  tell  you  that  the  Intelligence 
has  practically  kicked  me  out.  I  am  too  radical,  too  forth- 
putting,  for  the  paper's  policy.  Green  River  subscribers  have 
threatened  to  cancel  their  subscriptions,  I  am  informed, 
unless  my  articles  are  toned  down,  made  less  annoying  to 
my  townsmen.  I've  known  for  a  long  time  that  I  and  my 
Black  Republican  ideas  were  a  Green  River  disgrace " 

"If  you  feel  you  must  move  away  from  Green  River, 
why  not  go  to  New  York?  Mr.  Greeley " 

"Mr.  Greeley  has  made  me  an  excellent  offer.  But  I 
would  be  hampered  there,  precisely  as  I  am  hampered  here. 
No,  I  must  strike  out  for  myself.  I  must  complete  the  work 
that  I  know  is  allotted  to  me." 

"But  listen,  Stafford.  You  don't  understand  what  you 
are  attempting.  Your  farm  will  be  no  help  to  you.  Instead, 
you'll  be  lucky  if  it  does  not  prove  a  dead  weight.  Out 
west,  competent  farm  help  is  impossible  to  find.  As  for 
breaking  a  prairie  farm  yourself,  you're  about  as  well  qual- 
ified for  such  terrific  work  as  I  am.  A  wild  young  country 
will  yield  her  riches  only  to  men  of  force  and  power  and 
youth.  Where,  in  your  household,  will  you  find  one  such 
worker.  You  yourself  will  be  tied  down  by  your  newspaper. 
Your  sons  are  too  young.  If  your  brother  Joel  would  go 
with  you,  and  give  his  strength " 

"I  can  hardly  expect  such  aid  from  Joel."  A  curious 
seared  look  came  on  Father's  face. 

"And  when  you  think  of  your  young  family.  .  .  .  For- 
give me,  Stafford,  but  is  this  plan  quite  just  to  them?" 


THE    FATHER  57 

"  'Hostages  to  fortune '  "  Father  put  out  his  hand 

to  his  sleeping  girl.  "I  know,  Mr.  Emerson.  You  are  right. 
But — man,  can't  you  see?  Can't  you  understand?  This  work 
has  been  laid  on  me,  as  the  old-time  folks  used  to  say.  I 
dare  not  hold  back.  I  cannot.  It's  my  work.  It  is  my  allotted 
task.  How  dare  I  withdraw  my  hand  from  the  plow?" 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"I  know  I  am  making  the  right  decision.  The  only  choice 

for  me  to  make.  Yet "  Father  flinched,  then,  and  his 

drawn  face  reddened  miserably.  aYet — oh,  Lord,  how  I 
wish  that  a  man  could  set  out  to  do  his  nation  a  service 
without  feeling  himself  such  an  infernal  prig!" 

Mr.  Emerson  nodded.  Into  his  blue  impenetrable  eyes 
crept  that  slow  caustic  smile. 

"That  is  the  immemorial  curse  upon  the  preacher.  Who 
are  you,  says  your  world,  to  set  yourself  up  as  a  judge,  a  re- 
former— odious  word!  Nobody  jeers  at  the  man  who  fights 
for  his  country.  Everybody  jeers  at  the  man  who,  forced  to 
see  the  dangers  that  menace  his  country,  dares  to  point  out 
those  dangers,  urge  a  remedy.  No,  Stafford,  you  won't  have 
even  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  you  are  a  martyr  to 
your  noble  faith.  Martyr,  forsooth !  You'll  be  a  dreary  nui- 
sance. And  when  you  have  given  your  all,  when  you  have 
laid  down  body  and  soul,  some  worthy  citizen  will  come 
along  and  turn  you  out.  Because,  like  Aristides'  critic, 
he  is  tired  of  hearing  you  called  The  Just." 

There  fell  another  silence.  But  at  last  Mr.  Emerson 
spoke  again. 

"To  be  sure,  Stafford,  there  is  another  side  to  this.  Once 
in  an  aeon,  your  words  may  strike  home  to  some  man,  drive 
your  truth  deep  into  his  mind  and  heart.  This  man,  having 
listened  and  believed,  may  pass  your  word  along.  Then,  if 
enough  men  listen,  if  enough  men  pass  your  word 
along " 


58  THE    FATHER 

Father  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  worn  face  was  aglow. 

"There  you  are!  If  I  can  hope  to  reach  just  one  man, 
Mr.  Emerson!  A  man  who  will  have  the  judgment,  the 
cold  reason,  the  unswerving  will " 

Then  Mr.  Emerson  lifted  his  face  to  the  light.  And  like 
a  stronger,  clearer  light,  came  his  slow  musing  answer. 

"  'There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men '  Yes,  Staf- 
ford, and  there  is  a  tide  in  men  themselves.  Humanity  is  at 
a  low  ebb.  The  time  is  ripe  for  a  high-tide  man.  A  man 
who  does  not  know  fear,  who,  once  his  course  is  set,  can 
never  yield.  If  you  can  reach  that  man,  if  you  can  open  his 
way  for  him,  if  you  can  hold  up  your  torch  for  him,  even 
for  one  hour " 

Shivering,  numb  with  sleep,  Mercy  dragged  herself 
awake  and  stumbled  up  the  stairs.  She  tiptoed  to  Thomas's 
cot  to  make  sure  he  was  tucked  in  tight.  Alas,  even  as  she 
bent  above  him,  her  ears  were  greeted  by  a  heart-shattering 
whoop.  Poor  little  Thomas  had  fallen  from  grace.  Against 
all  commands,  he  had  spent  half  the  afternoon  wading  in 
Concord  Pond,  and  he  was  close  on  suffocation.  Patient 
Mrs.  Emerson  hurried  up,  bringing  all  the  supererogatory 
horrors  of  croup,  in  so  many  black  bottles.  Father  and  Mr. 
Emerson  came  on  the  jump,  and  Father  said  sternly  that 
this  served  Thomas  quite  right,  and  that  he  richly  deserved 
it,  and  then  melted  considerably,  after  the  manner  of 
fathers,  when  the  small,  struggling,  gasping  creature  flung 
up  drowning  arms  and  clutched  him  for  its  life. 

But  finally  the  cruel  grip  loosened  on  the  chunky  little 
throat,  and  Thomas  toppled  back,  dead  asleep,  into  his  sis- 
ter's arms.  And  the  next  morning  the  criminal  was  driven 
home  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  to  say  nothing  of  the  leg  of 
Mr.  Emerson's  red-flannel  drawers,  wrapped  tight  around 
his  neck,  to  hold  fast  the  fat  bacon  rind  which  was  Mrs. 


THE    FATHER 


59 


Emerson's  final  prescription.  And  the  days  that  followed 
were  so  filled  with  wonders  that  it  was  not  till  many  years 
had  passed  that  Mercy  remembered  that  hour  in  the  quiet 
white- walled  study.  She  was  a  woman  grown  before  there 
came  to  her  the  memory  of  those  slow  poignant  words: 

— "If  I  can  reach  just  one  man " 

"If  you  can  open  his  way  for  him,  if  you  can  hold  up 
your  torch  for  him,  for  even  one  hour " 


CHAPTER    SIX 

MERCY  raced  up  the  long  hill  to  Aunt  Celestia's.  The 
September  wind,  cool  and  sweet  and  rowdy  as  March, 
ran  with  her.  It  pulled  and  tweaked  the  silver-gilt  rings  that 
it  had  snatched  loose  from  her  net,  it  tossed  her  wide-flow- 
ing dimity  sleeves,  it  flung  her  hoops  impudently  sidewise 
till  she  felt  like  a  runaway  balloon.  But  faster  than  the 
wind  she  flew.  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!  She  was  breathless, 
she  was  bursting  with  her  news  when  she  hurled  herself 
into  Aunty's  keepin'  room. 

To  come  into  that  room  was  to  come  into  a  dusky,  stuffy 
worsted- work  cave;  its  ceiling  all  hung  with  stalactites  of 
jingling  bead-and-yarn  tassels  and  cardboard  aircastles  and 
rainbow  prisms,  its  floor  cluttered  with  stalagmites  of  small, 
treacherous  footstools,  topped  by  life-size  satin-stitch  cats. 
All  the  chairs  toed  the  line,  wearing  starched  and  slippery 
tidies  like  so  many  meek  little  orphans  in  spotless  pinafores. 
The  high  board  mantel  wore  not  only  a  white  pinafore  but 
a  long  glittering  overskirt  of  bead  fringe,  reminiscent  of 
the  cannibal  ladies  in  Tales  from  Heathen  Lands  which 
adorned  the  inlaid  ebony  center-table.  The  cage  for  Zeno- 
bia,  the  macaw,  was  draped  in  a  modest  bead  ruffle.  Even 
the  tall  whale-oil  lamp  on  the  desk  was  flounced  and  cor- 
seted with  beads  of  every  hue.  The  only  object  in  that 
room  that  didn't  wear  beads  was  Cyrus. 

Cyrus,  Aunty's  ancient  Chinese  carp,  considerably  over- 
weight and  of  a  morose  and  disdainful  disposition,  swam 
languidly  round  and  round  his  globe,  unadorned.  However, 
as  Seth  had  once  remarked,  Cyrus  wore  side-whiskers  ex- 
actly like  the  precentor's.  And  his  globe  stood  on  a  cro- 


THE    FATHER  61 

cheted  thread  mat  of  red-white-and-green,  fine  as  cobweb, 
with  every  point  in  its  leaf  border  tipped  by  a  diamond-drop 
crystal. 

"Aunty,  where  are  you?  Quick!" 

Aunty  appeared  from  her  bedroom  wrapped  in  Joseph's 
Coat.  Joseph's  Coat  was  not  only  a  family  relic.  It  was  a 
family  tree.  It  was  what  a  later  generation  would  call  a 
lounging  robe,  only  Aunty  never  lounged  at  all.  In  design- 
ing it,  her  flair  for  thrift  had  held  full  sway.  Set  on  a 
foundation  of  faded  old  cherry  paduasoy,  it  was  built  of 
many-colored  patches  joined  with  featherstitching.  Affec- 
tionately your  eye  recognized  the  raiment  of  three  genera- 
tions past. 

There  was  Grandfather  Huntingdon's  wedding  waistcoat 
of  white  plush  with  embossed  wreaths  now  yellowed  to 
ivory.  There  were  scraps  of  heavy  amber  brocade,  Great- 
aunt  Davenport's  Josephine  gown  in  which  she  had  trailed 
like  an  amber  bird-of-paradise  at  the  Peace  Ball.  There 
were  slab-sided  chunks  of  Father's  wedding  coat.  That  coat 
would  have  made  small  pantaloons  for  ages  to  come,  if  mice 
hadn't  found  it  precisely  the  thing  for  crib  linings.  There 
was  a  scrap  of  blue  cloth  striped  with  tarnished  gold  braid 
cut  from  the  small  but  gallant  trousers  of  Second-cousin 
David,  worn  in  the  days  when,  a  commissioned  officer  aged 
twelve,  he  strode  the  Essex  quarter-deck  beside  Admiral 
Porter.  There  were  artless  scarlet  high-lights  cut  from  por- 
tions of  the  little  boys'  outgrown  woolen  underwear.  And 
Mercy's  scalp  always  prickled  slightly  when  she  viewed  a 
large  pentagon  of  somber  black  plush;  a  scrap  salvaged  from 
Great-Uncle  Jonathan's  coffin  lining. 

Aunty  gazed  on  her  rebukingly. 

"Mercy  Rose  Stafford,  what  in  time  is  the  matter  with 
you?  You  scared  me  out  of  a  year's  growth.  I  all  but  swal- 
lowed my  lower  plate." 


62  THE    FATHER 

"Oh,  Aunty,  we're  going  West.  To  stay  forever!" 

Aunty  sat  down  suddenly. 

"Whatever  in  calamity " 

"Away  out  to  Illinois.  Father  had  a  letter  from  Deacon 
Lyman's  brother.  He  has  bought  us  a  fine  little  farm,  and 
father  has  sent  him  the  money  to  buy  the  town  printing- 
press,  too.  Yes,  and  Lucinda's  pa  wants  to  buy  our  place 
here,  house  and  orchard  and  farms  and  all.  And  father 
says  we'll  start  soon  as  ever  he  can  buy  a  good  Conestoga 
and  a  wagon-team.  Of  course  we  could  go  on  the  railroad, 
part  way,  but  father  thinks  the  little  boys  will  have  such  a 
royal  time  camping  out.  Oh,  isn't  it  grand!" 

Aunty  did  not  look  so  very  uplifted.  She  sat  very  white 
and  still.  Her  strong  old  hands  shook  on  her  knee. 

"This  is  part  and  parcel  of  John's  anti-slavery  doin's," 
she  said,  when  she  could  speak.  "Bought  a  farm,  sight  un- 
seen. Pig  in  a  poke,  most  like.  I'll  wager  it  hasn't  even  a 
good  well  on  it." 

"Oh,  but,  Aunty,  it  has  a  wonderful  one.  It's  an  ever- 
flowing  spring,  and  it  never  was  known  to  go  dry.  That's 
one  reason  why  father  wrote  Mr.  Timothy  to  go  right 
ahead  and  buy  it." 

Aunty  merely  snorted. 

"And  sent  money  for  a  printing  press.  Mess  of  rust,  of 
course.  Stafford,  all  over.  And  why  hasn't  he  been  up  to 
tell  me,  himself?" 

"He  couldn't.  Everything  happened  this  morning.  All  at 
once.  He'll  be  up  to-night  as  soon  as  supper  is  finished." 

"Is  your  father  aimin'  to  take  all  your  furniture?  The 
portraits,  too?" 

"No,  he'll  sell  most  of  the  things.  It  costs  too  much  to 
carry  them  along.  But  the  portraits  we'll  take,  and  the  linen 
and  silver." 


THE    FATHER  63 

"H'm.  If  your  grandfather  goes,  wall-eye  and  all,  I 
plan  to  take  everything  I've  got.  'Specially  Cyrus." 

"Aunty !  You  don't  mean  you'd  go  with  us  ? " 

"Think  you  could  leave  me  behind?" 

"Oh,  Aunty,  you  precious!  I  might  have  known  you'd 
stand  by." 

"Only  thing  that  would  make  me  hang  back,  is  how 
Cyrus  will  take  it.  Illinois  water  may  be  different  from 
New  England  spring  water.  It  won't  be  easy  for  him  to 
change.  If  I  dragged  that  poor  fish  out  west  and  made 
him  miserable  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  I'd  never  forgive 
myself." 

"Oh,  Cyrus  will  love  it."  Mercy  tapped  the  globe  with 
a  beguiling  finger.  Cyrus  responded  with  a  chill  glare,  and 
an  insolent  twirl  of  his  muttonchop  whiskers.  He  then  swam 
churlishly  away,  and  retired  to  the  dungeon  of  his  castle. 

"  'Pears  like  he  understood  every  word  we  say.  And  he 
doesn't  like  it." 

"Oh,  he'll  perk  up,  once  we  start,"  Mercy  assured  her 
hurriedly. 

"Mind  you  send  your  father  up,  the  minute  he  comes 
home.  I've  got  some  questions  to  ask  him." 

But  when  John  Stafford  came  up  the  petunia  path, 
Aunty  asked  only  one  question. 

"John,  can  you  tell  me  one  thing?  Do  you  feel  you  have 
a  call  to  this  work?  That  you — that  you've  got  it  to  do?" 

"Aunty,  I  know.  It  stares  me  in  the  face  night  and  day. 
If  just  I'm  given  the  power  to  carry  it  through!" 

Aunty  swallowed  hard.  All  her  safe,  small  world  pitched 
into  ruin.  The  very  walls  of  her  life  were  toppling  around 
her. 

"That  settles  it,  John.  I  go  with  you.  And  I  stay  by." 

Aunty,  all  over.  Never  for  an  hour  could  she  compre- 
hend John's  aims.  But  being  Aunty,  she  was  faithful.  That 


64  THE    FATHER 

faithfulness  was  her  pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  her  pillar  of 
fire  by  night.  She  put  on  the  whole  armor  of  loyalty.  She 
girded  on  her  three  alpaca  petticoats  and  her  brass-bound 
specks  and  her  plumed  and  intimidating  bonnet.  She  packed 
her  squatty  little  sole-leather  trunk,  broken  out  in  a  perma- 
nent rash  of  brass  nails,  she  bought  a  costly  new  copper  ket- 
tle for  Cyrus*  traveling  carriage  and  sewed  her  ancient 
purple  nuby  into  a  cover  for  Zenobia's  cage.  She  broke  all 
her  contented  old  ties  without  a  murmur. 

Another  woman  might  have  said  to  herself,  "Fruitless, 
piteous  folly.  But  to  this  man,  here  stands  his  mighty  hope. 
So  stand  back.  Let  him  follow  his  dream."  But  no  such  deep 
understanding  sustained  Aunty.  Her  loyalty  was  the  more 
deeply  loyal  because  she  did  not  ask  to  understand,  but 
only  to  serve. 

Breaking  up  the  home  of  a  lifetime  is  a  dreary  process. 
Aunty  aged  daily.  Even  Father  wore  to  a  raw  edge.  Only  to 
the  little  boys  were  these  hurried  days  a  wonder  and  an 
ecstasy.  Injuns,  bears  and  catamounts!  Bronzed  scouts,  stern 
spies,  grim  feathered  red-skins  draped  in  scalps,  lined  the 
roads  in  endless  procession  from  Green  River,  Massachu- 
setts, to  Bakerstown,  Illinois!  An  enterprising  arrow  which 
took  Deacon  Jedediah  Perkins  in  the  small  of  the  back  and 
all  but  suspended  negotiations  on  the  sale  of  the  homestead, 
put  a  check  on  Seth's  bloodthirsty  career;  but  little  Thomas 
slew  his  thousands  daily.  Mercy  complained  that  she  waded 
in  gore. 

Mercy  was  having  troubles  of  her  own.  Lemuel,  dismayed 
by  impending  separation,  begged  her  to  be  really  engaged 
to  him.  "Wear  my  ring,  Mercy.  I've  got  an  elegant  one, 
half  paid  for,  down  at  the  postoffice  store.  Cost  me  a  dollar 
and  fifty  cents.  Once  we  tell  them  we're  engaged,  your 
father  and  mine  can't  say  anything." 

Mercy,  however,  felt  that  they  could  say  aplenty.  Es- 


THE    FATHER  65 

pecially  her  own  father.  It  would  hurt  him,  too.  Hurt  him 
cruelly. 

"I  think  it  would  be  piggy  not  to  tell  Father  all  about  it 
first.  And  your  own  father  would  be  mad  as  hops." 

"Well,  just  as  you  say."  Lemuel  sighed.  "But  it's  going 
to  be  terrible  hard  on  me.  Engaged  to  a  girl  out  West,  so  I 
dassent  so  much  as  go  to  singing  school  with  any  of  the 
girls  here.  Yet  I  won't  even  have  the  satisfaction  of  saying 
I'm  tied  up  to  you.  Can't  you  see  that?" 

"  'Tied  up> '  "  Mercy  tried  the  words  over.  Somehow 

they  sounded  very  queer  indeed.  Not  so  very  knightly  either. 
Still,  any  knight  must  needs  be  allowed  to  relax  at  times. 

Lemuel  had  relaxed  a  good  deal.  He  was  nailing  up  pack- 
ing boxes  for  Aunty.  His  brow  was  wet  with  honest  sweat, 
his  sleeves  were  rolled  up  over  grimy  arms,  the  seat  of  his 
blue  jeans  breeches  gave  back  a  radiance  that  outshone  the 
sun,  for  Aunty  had  been  regilding  Zenobia's  cage  ("Small 
chance  I'll  find  any  gold  paint  in  all  that  wilderness!")  and 
Lemuel  had  sat  down  casually  in  the  gilt. 

But  a  knight  is  a  knight.  No  matter  where  his  effulgence 
is  located  for  the  time  being.  And  the  thought  of  that  ring 
at  fhe  postoffice  store,  her  own  engagement  ring  to  be! 
Mercy  yielded. 

"W-well.  You  bring  me  the  ring,  and  I'll  wear  it  on  a 
ribbon.  Around  my  neck.  Under  my  tucker.  It  won't  mean 
I  am  really  engaged  to  you.  But  you  can  be  engaged  to  me, 
and  I'll  think  it  over.  But  neither  of  us  is  to  tell  anybody 
till  we're  all  ready  to  get  married.  Then  we'll  tell  my  own 
father,  first  of  all.  Mind  that." 

"Oh,  all  right!"  Lemuel  started  to  kiss  her,  then  gave  an 
apprehensive  glance  towards  -the  kitchen  door.  Between 
Aunty  and  the  little  boys  a  man  never  knew  when  he  was 
safe.  "I'll  bring  your  ring  to  prayer-meeting.  And  on  the 
way  home Yes,  mom,  I  just  finished  the  box  with  the 


66  THE    FATHER 

wax  pomegranates.  Yes,  mom,  I  packed  about  a  million 
tidies  round  'em,  more  or  less.  Yes,  mom.  you're  kindly 
welcome.   Good-by." 

Aunty  stood  frowning  wearily.  She  needed  an  outlet.  She 
seized  on  one. 

"My  land!  Seems  like  my  back  would  break  square  in 
two.  Mercy,  what's  come  over  your  hair?  It  always  has 
some  red  in  it,  but  to-day  it's  redder  than  ever." 

That  dark  red  under-gleam  was  always  a  chastening. 
Mercy  gave  a  ferocious  tug  to  the  thick  braid.  "I  know. 
It's  getting  redder  all  the  time.  But  what  can  I  do  about 
it?" 

"In  my  day,  folks  used  to  say  that  red  hair  was  a  pun- 
ishment for  some  transgression  away  back.  Before  you  were 
born,  maybe." 
\      "But  how  could  I  sin  before  I  was  born?"  Mercy  flared 
up  heatedly. 

"Don't  ask  such  questions.  They  come  too  close  to  blas- 
phemy." 

Mercy  reflected.  That  evening  she  swooped  down  on 
Father.  Desperately  tired,  haggard  with  discouragement,  he 
was  taking  out  his  worry  by  wrassling  with  the  little  boys. 
Between  Aunty's  generation  and  Father's  own  there  lay  a 
gulf  as  wide  as  the  sea. 

"Thomas!  Let  go  Father's  ears,  I  want  to  ask  him  a 
question.  Listen,  Father.  Do  you  mind  it,  because  I  have 
red  hair?" 

"Do  I  mind  it — because  you  have  red  hair?"  Father 
parted  his  knees,  like  a  breaking  bridge-span.  Thomas  de- 
parted for  the  floor  with  a  yell  of  terrified  joy  that  jarred 
the  rafters.  "What  on  earth " 

"Aunty  says " 

"Mind  it — mind  it?"  Stunned,  her  parent  groped  for 
words.  "I  thought  you  children  had  asked  all  the  astound- 


THE    FATHER  67 

ing  questions  beneath  the  arched  canopy  of  Heaven,  but  it 
appears  there  are  a  few  left.  Why,  if  you  please,  should  I 
mind  it?"  Under  his  frosty  crest,  his  eyes  began  to  snap. 
"Why,  I  gave  it  to  you  myself!" 

"Why,  Father " 

"The  first  time  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  you,  young  lady " 

Father  shook  off  Seth  and  Donny  and  pulled  Mercy  down 
on  his  knee,  "you  were  not  a  young  lady  by  any  means.  Far 
from  it.  You  were  just  a  roll  of  yellow  flannel  with  a  red 
scalplock  sticking  out  of  one  end  and  two  bright  red  flat- 
iron  feet  out  of  the  other." 

"Why,   Father " 

"You  don't  believe  me?  See  here."  He  tossed  her  down, 
too,  and  went  to  the  dim  old  eagle  mirror.  "I  have  not 
looked  for  traces  of  my  long  lost  beauty,  these  many  years, 

but  perhaps "  He  parted  his  thick  silver  crest,  searched 

earnestly.  "There!" 

Under  his  finger  lay  a  thread  or  so  of  glittering  red- 
bronze  glinting  into  silver. 

"Why,  Father "  Seth  stood  aghast.  "Why,  you  used 

to  be  a  red-head,  too." 

"Certainly  I  was.  A  dangerous  one  at  that.  Let  me 
show  you  how  savage  I  used  to  be." 

He  grasped  Seth  by  his  scant  raiment,  held  him  at  arm's 
length,  brandished  him,  squawking.  Adoniram  and  Thomas 
fell  upon  their  cruel  parent  from  the  rear.  Ensued  a  gor- 
geous melee.  At  the  climax  fell  the  doomful  voice  of 
Aunty. 

"John  Stafford!  I've  just  patched  Seth's  trousers,  and 
you  waving  him  around  by  the  patch!  Of  all  the  heathen 
doings " 

Father's  proud  crest  fell.  The  little  boys  made  them- 
selves judiciously  scarce.  But  Mercy  crowed  inwardly.  At 
one  fateful  stroke  Aunty  had  forsworn  her  infallibility  of 


68  THE    FATHER 

years.  So.  Red  hair  was  a  proof  of  sin,  was  it?  Yet  Father, 
Father,  who  could  do  no  wrong,  had  given  it  to  her! 

Being  eminently  human,  the  citizens  of  Green  River, 
once  realizing  that  John  Stafford  and  his  family  were  shak- 
ing the  Green  River  dust  from  their  feet,  began  to  hedge 
and  sidle.  A  bit  shamefaced,  people  stopped  him  on  the 
street  and  told  him  he  needn't  expect  any  success  in  such  a 
wild-goose  chase,  but  wished  him  good  fortune  none  the 
less.  A  steady  stream  of  votive  offerings  trickled  through 
the  kitchen.  Father  might  starve  for  sympathy  in  Green 
River  but  Green  River  housewives  would  never  permit  him 
to  go  hungry  for  more  material  food. 

Perhaps  those  who  had  no  farewell  gifts  to  bring,  were 
the  most  deeply  grieved.  One  afternoon  old  Captain  Jones 
hobbled  up  the  hill  to  say  good-by. 

"Donno's  how  I'm  goin'  to  make  out,  once  you  folks  are 
gone."  The  Captain's  brittle  old  voice  quavered  and  broke. 
He  looked  at  Father  with  dry,  despairing  old  eyes.  "Lew, 
my  son-in-law,  he  says  as  how  he  can't  leave  me  have  more 
than  two  bits  a  month  spending  money  any  more.  And  he 
grudges  me  every  mouthful  I  eat.  He  even  keeps  'count  of 
the  sassidges.  And  they  don't  give  me  no  feather-bed  win- 
ters, and  nights  I  plumb  freeze.  Couldn't  you  make  out  to 
take  me  along?  Yes,  I  know  I'm  eighty-five,  going  on 
eighty-six,  but  there's  a  power  of  hard  work  in  me  yet.  I 
kin  chop  wood,  and  churn,  and  shovel  snow;  I'll  earn  my 
keep,  anywheres.  Can't  you  make  out  to  take  me  along?" 

Father  couldn't  stand  out  against  that. 

"We'll  manage,  somehow,"  he  told  Aunt  Celestia.  "No, 
there's  not  an  inch  of  room  for  him  in  the  carryall.  No 
space  in  the  wagon,  either.  But  I've  got  to  take  him  along. 
I  won't  leave  him  behind." 

"John,  we  can't.  He's  so  feeble  right  now,  he  can  hardly 


THE    FATHER  69 

shuffle.  Listen.  You  know  I've  got  my  eighty  dollars  a  year, 
interest  money.  I  can  easily  spare  him  a  dollar  a  month. 
We'll  fix  it  so  that  his  tight-fisted  son-in-law  needn't  know 
one  thing." 

Father  growled,  but  he  yielded  with  scant  argument. 

"Gave  in  and  behaved  sensible,  for  once  in  his  life," 
Aunty  remarked  to  Mercy  later.  "Sometimes  I  think  that 
verse  in  the  Bible  was  writ  special  about  him.  'And  that 
thou  takest  the  needy  into  thine  house.'  John  would  take  in 
the  whole  world-full  of  needy  folks,  if  so's  he  could.  He's  a 
good  man,  Mercy.  None  better.  But  I  surely  am  thankful 
that  he  has  you  to  take  care  of  him.  No  matter  how  good 
your  menfolks  are,  they're  an  awful  responsibility." 

"Everybody  comes  to  see  us,"  wrote  Mercy  in  her  diary, 
"to  poke  and  pry  around,  and  figure  out  what  we're  taking 
along,  and  find  out  how  much  money  Father  is  getting  for 
the  farms,  and  how  much  he  paid  for  the  new  place  out 
west,  and  are  we  ever  coming  back,  and  Well,  we  do  hope 
you  succeed.  But  no  telling.  To-day,  though,  we  had  two 
very  remarkable  visitors.  They  were  old  Judge  Amberley 
and  Miss  Evelina.  But  they  did  not  come  together,  and  I 
don't  believe  that  either  one  knew  that  the  other  was 
coming. 

"First  came  Miss  Evelina.  She  walked  up  the  hill,  though 
nobody  ever  saw  her  walk  so  far  before.  Always  she  sits, 
all  primmed  up,  in  the  big  barouche  alongside  of  her  father, 
and  never  looks  to  right  nor  to  left.  But  this  time  she  came 
flying  up  all  alone.  She  looked  perfectly  beautiful,  for  she 
had  on  an  apple-green  taffeta  dress  with  rosebuds  embroid- 
ered on  all  the  flounces,  and  a  great  swinging  cape  of  yellow 
old  lace  over  it,  and  a  bonnet  all  frills  and  stiff  little  cin- 
namon pinks.  But  her  cheeks  were  blazing  red,  and  she  was 
out  of  breath  and  shaking  all  over. 


70  THE    FATHER 

"She  hardly  spoke  to  Aunty  and  me.  She  went  straight  to 
Father.  He  was  roping  Grandfather  Davenport  into  a 
Rising  Sun  quilt  but  he  stopped  quick  and  came  straight  to 
her,  shirt-sleeves  and  all. 

"  'Good  morning,  Mr.  Stafford,'  says  she,  very  proud 
and  cool.  But  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  I  could  see 
it  tremble.  'I  have  come  to  ask  a  great  kindness  of  you. 
Will  you  take  me  west  with  you?  I  wish  to  remain  west 
permanently.' 

"Father's  eyes  simply  popped  out.  So  did  Aunty's.  So  did 
mine.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  Father  said,  'Oh,  my  dear 
child!'  as  if  she  had  told  him  something,  without  saying  it 
out  loud.  Then  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  said,  so 
gently,  'But  your  own  father?' 

"  'My  own  father — I  cannot  talk  to  him.  He  is  kind. 
But  he  could  never  understand.  But  you ' 

"She  stopped,  and  sort  of  thought  it  over. 

"  'Listen.  In  the  past  three  years  I  have  made  eight  bead 
reticules,  one  with  France  weeping  at  the  grave  of  Na- 
poleon on  it.  I  have  embroidered  three  fire  screens,  and 
knitted  the  lace  for  seven  petticoats.  I  have  not  stirred 
abroad,  save  as  I  took  the  air  with  my  father.  I  have  not 
baked  a  loaf  of  bread.  I  have  not  fed  a  child.' 

"She  stopped  right  there.  Her  cheeks  were  flaming,  and 
she  looked  as  if  she  was  so  angry  she  daren't  speak  another 
word.  Then 

"  'I  am  only  a  woman.  I  know  that.  But  I  have  the 
right  to  live  like  other  women,  to  work,  to  do  my 
share ' 

"She  stopped  again. 

"Father  stood  there  with  his  arm  around  her.  He  looked 
sort  of  white  and  queer  and  sorry.  At  last  he  said,  'But  you 
cannot  hurt  your  father  so.  You  are  his  beloved  only  child. 
You  cannot  shame  him.' 


THE    FATHER  7i 

"Miss  Evelina  waited  till  he  had  finished.  Then  she 
pulled  herself  away  from  Father,  and  laughed  out  loud, 
right  in  his  face.  She  drew  back,  and  gave  him  a  great 
sweeping  curtsey. 

"  'Men  are  all  alike,  when  it  comes  to  women.  Thank 
you  with  all  my  heart  for  your  stone,  Mr.  John  Stephen 
Stafford!' 

"Then  she  curtsied  to  Aunty,  and  kissed  me,  and  her 
lips  were  like  ice.  And  off  she  went,  drifting  down  the 
garden  like  a  queen  in  a  fairy  book. 

"Father  stared  after  her.  Then  he  said,  sort  of  under 
his  breath,  'But,  good  God,  what  can  a  man  do?' 

"I  thought  Aunty  would  rebuke  him  for  such  outrajus 
language,  but  she  never  peeped.  She  just  patted  his  shoul- 
der, and  didn't  say  one  word.  I  surely  do  wish  I  knew  what 
Miss  Evelina  meant  by  giving  her  a  stone,  but  you  may 
believe  I  knew  better  than  to  ask. 

"That  very  afternoon,  Father  was  down  in  the  home 
orchard.  Giving  up  the  orchard  is  harder  for  Father  than 
anything  else.  He  loves  it  more  than  the  house,  even,  a 
thousand  times  more.  I  know  just  how  he  feels,  for  the  trees 
are  like  people  to  me,  too.  The  apple  trees  are  so  moth- 
erly, and  the  pear  trees  are  such  fussy  conceited  things, 
always  showing  off,  and  yet  so  elegant,  you  have  to  treat 
them  like  quality,  everyone;  and  the  peaches  and  cherries 
all  bloom  in  such  a  rush,  like  so  many  excited  brides,  as  if 
they  were  head-set  on  beating  each  other  every  year.  Father 
had  the  little  boys  with  him  and  they  were  picking  apples, 
but  most  of  the  time  Father  was  being  a  wild  horse  of 
the  Pampas,  and  Thomas  was  riding  him  bareback,  and  the 
other  two  were  lassoing  him  with  pieces  of  grapevine. 

"Right  then  up  comes  Judge  Amberley,  sitting  so  straight 
and  stately  in   his   bottle-green   barouche,   with   his   black 


72  THE    FATHER 

coachman,  all  bottle-green,  too,  perched  all  high  and  mighty 
up  aloft. 

"When  Father  saw  Judge  Amberley,  he  shucked  Thomas 
off  his  back,  and  hurried  to  meet  him. 

"Now  I  thought  it  was  very  romantic  of  Miss  Evelina, 
to  want  to  go  West  with  us,  and  that  maybe  the  Judge  was 
behaving  like  a  Cruel  Parent  to  her,  though  you'd  never 
believe  that  to  look  at  him  and,  anyway,  I  thought  it  would 
be  interesting  to  listen.  But  the  Judge  never  once  spoke 
Miss  Evelina's  name.  I  don't  believe  he  so  much  as  dreamed 
that  she  wanted  to  go  West.  But  he  was  terribly  worked  up. 
He  struggled  out  of  the  barouche,  and  he  went  straight  to 
Father,  and  gripped  Father's  hands  hard. 

"  'John,  my  boy,  a  strange  report  has  come  to  me.  People 
tell  me  that  you  are  selling  your  lands,  that  you  are  going 
West,  that  you  will  cast  in  your  lot  with  the  abolitionists. 
I  cannot  believe  this.  Tell  me  that  this  is  not  true.  Surely 
you  will  not  join  that  pestilent  crew.' 

"Poor  Father,  I  was  so  sorry  for  him.  He  loves  Judge 
Amberley  so  dearly.  He  tried  to  answer,  but  he  just  couldn't 
speak.  Finally  he  got  it  out. 

"  cThese  reports  are  true,  Judge  Amberley.  I — I'd  give 
anything  if  you  could  feel  as  I  do ' 

"  'John,  you  are  your  father's  son,  and  as  his  son,  noth- 
ing can  turn  you  away  from  me.  But Oh,  you  can- 
not mean  to  do  this  thing!  You  will  not  ruin  your  life, 
you  will  not  blacken  your  honored  name!' 

"  'Judge  Amberley' — poor  Father,  he  was  shaking  all 
over — T  must  follow  the  command  of  my  own  conscience. 
Surely  you  will  not  cast  me  out?' 

"Judge  Amberley  tried  to  speak,  but  he  couldn't.  He 
just  choked  up,  too,  and  stood  staring  at  Father.  Father 
put  out  his  hand,  but  the  Judge  didn't  see  it.  He  turned  to 
the  barouche  and  held  to  it  a  minute,  as  if  he  was  going 


THE    FATHER  73 

to  fall,  but  he  didn't.  He  pitched  and  blundered  up  the  steps, 
and  sort  of  fell  back  into  the  seat.  And  then  the  bottle-green 
coachman  drove  him  away. 

"He'd  hurt  Father  terribly.  I  knew  that.  For  a  minute, 
I  was  so  angry  I  couldn't  speak  myself.  But  as  the  barouche 
turned  down  the  driveway,  I  got  a  good  look  at  his  face. 
My,  but  he  looked  so  gray  and  sick  and  old!  And  his  poor 
old  veiny  hands  were  clutching  out,  groping  out,  as  if  he'd 
let  go  of  something  that  he  couldn't  ever  get  hold  of  again. 

"I  just  packed  Father's  chessmen  in  the  box  with  the  win- 
ter flannels.  Father  says  small  chance  he  will  find  anybody 
to  play  chess  with  out  west.  But  I  want  him  to  have  them, 
for  when  he  is  tired  from  writing,  an  hour  of  chess  rests 
him  so  much.  Aunty  says  she  has  never  approved  of  any 
game  of  chance,  and  she  considers  that  to  play  chess  is  to 
undermine  your  character,  but  if  she  was  not  seventy-six 
going  on  seventy-seven  she  would  try  to  learn,  so's  to  be 
company  for  him.  Aunty  always  smacks  you  first  and 
then  gives  you  a  peppermint  afterwards. 

"Father  has  hired  Miss  Euphemia  to  make  new  round- 
abouts for  the  little  boys,  all  over  brass  buttons,  and  new 
nankeen  pantaloons,  and  he  bought  me  a  fine  lilac  poplin 
with  green  velvet  moss  trimming,  for  my  very  best.  He 
should  have  bought  himself  a  new  great-coat.  The  one  he 
has  is  very  genteel-looking  when  he  gets  it  on,  but  it  is  so 
shiny  on  the  seams  that  Aunty  roughs  it  up  with  sand- 
paper every  week.  I've  tried  hard  to  coax  him  to  buy  a  new 
one,  but  he  says  he  cannot  afford  to  this  year.  I  can't  under- 
stand why  he  wants  to  pinch  himself  like  that.  He  never 
used  to.  Of  course  I  know  we  are  not  rich  folks  and  never 
have  been,  not  since  Greatgrandfather  whiffed  everything 
away.  But  if  Father  can  afford  new  clothes  for  us  children, 
he  ought  to  have  some  for  himself. 

"Aunty  says  his  greatcoat  cannot  be  good  material,  for 


74  THE    FATHER 

any  greatcoat  ought  to  last  15  years  at  the  least,  and  that 
she  has  had  her  paddy-soy  mantle  for  18,  and  expects  to 
wear  it  to  the  Grave.  Aunty  is  very  forehanded.  She  has 
her  shroud  all  ready.  She  let  me  peek  at  it.  It  is  India 
muslin,  very  fine  and  sheer,  and  all  embroidered.  Grand- 
father brought  it  back  from  Bombay  in  the  Semiramis,  in 
1 82 1.  She  expects  to  wear  it  with  three  laced  petticoats,  but 
no  hoops,  as  she  says  they  are  not  customary " 

At  last  the  house  and  the  farms  were  sold.  All  the  money 
received,  except  the  dangerously  small  sum  that  Father 
held  back  for  his  children,  had  been  sent  to  Joel.  Sent 
through  Mr.  Emerson,  who  had  paid  almost  all  of  it  on 
Joel's  debt  to  the  Bank;  then  he  had  sent  what  remained  to 
Joel,  through  the  hands  of  a  trusted  friend.  It  was  best 
to  keep  Joel's  address  absolutely  secret.  The  wagons  were 
loaded  to  the  Plimsoll  mark.  The  good-bys  were  all 
spoken. 

Then,  on  the  very  last  day,  Green  River's  civic  heart 
melted.  Here  went  its  foremost  citizen  away  to  a  new  and 
lonely  world.  Green  River  must  rise  up  and  bid  him  God- 
speed. Shops  closed  their  doors,  and  the  whole  town  gath- 
ered before  the  schoolhouse,  an  awed,  sober,  friendly 
crowd. 

Up  rose  the  town  clerk,  his  brown  wig  a  bit  askew,  his 
voice  quivering  between  upblown  importance  and  sincere 
emotion.  He  lifted  his  hand  for  silence:  from  the  broad 
parchment,  nourishing  scrolls  and  flutes  and  flowers  that 
never  bloomed  by  land  or  sea,  he  read  aloud  his  tribute: 

"We,  the  men  and  women  of  Green  River,  Massachu- 
setts, in  Union  and  Harmony  assembled,  do  hereby: 
"Resolve: 

"That,  since  to-day  we  have  gathered  to  say  Farewell  to 


THE    FATHER  75 

our  friend  and  fellow-citizen,  John  Stephen  Stafford,  and 
his  Family,  upon  their  departure  for  the  Sangamon  Coun- 
try, Illinois:  that  we  hereby  tender  to  them  our  Generous 
Hopes,  and  our  Wishes  for  their  Success,  their  Spiritual 
and  Moral  Welfare,  and  their  Longevity.  We  also 
"Resolve: 

"That  we  commend  them  to  the  Brotherly  Kindness  of 
such  Communities  as  they  may  visit  during  their  Earthly 
Sojourn : 

"We  further 
"Resolve: 

"We  trust  that  they  may  receive,  from  such  Communi- 
ties, the  Hospitality,  the  Generosity,  and  the  Virtues  of 
Religion  of  which  they  themselves  have  been  always  such 
Notable  Exponents,  and  which  they  are  now  leaving 
behind." 

Nobody  noticed  that  startling  peroration.  Nobody  smiled. 
Father,  grim  and  white,  his  shaken  mouth  set  hard,  clutched 
Mercy  in  one  hand,  held  an  awed  leash  of  little  boys  in 
the  other.  In  three  unsteady  words,  he  spoke  his  gratitude. 
Then  he  loaded  them  into  the  carryall,  Aunty  first.  On  her 
lap  he  set  the  kettle  holding  the  moody  Cyrus.  Zenobia 
squawked  against  her  shoulder,  Mouser  flounced  indig- 
nantly in  her  gunny-sack  under  the  front  seat.  Mercy  and 
the  little  boys  crammed  themselves  in  behind. 

Aunty  stared  ahead,  up  the  peaceful  autumn  road.  Pres- 
ently she  wiped  her  eyes,  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  John,  we're  off." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Celestia,  we're  off.  Good  fortune  go  with 
us." 

Aunty  did  not  reply.  She  was  straining  her  eyes  after  the 
covered  wagon,  which  wallowed  ahead  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy 
sea. 


76  THE    FATHER 

"John  Stafford!  Who  is  driving  that  wagon?" 

Again,  in  its  utter  guilelessness,  Father's  face  rivaled  the 
Praying  Samuel. 

"Why,  I  never  thought  to  tell  you.  It's  old  Captain 
Jones." 

"Captain  Jones!" 

"Yes.  I  meant  to  drive  the  wagon  myself,  and  let  Mercy 
drive  the  carryall.  But  I  thought  it  over,  and  decided  I'd 
give  Great-aunt  Davenport  to  the  museum,  instead  of  haul- 
ing her  along  to  Illinois.  That  would  make  room  for  the 
Captain.  Better  take  along  a  live  friend  than  a  dead  an- 
cestor, any  day." 

There  fell  a  silence.  A  terrifying  silence. 

Then  Aunty  dug  into  the  depths  of  her  bag.  She  pulled 
out  a  peppermint.  She  thrust  it  into  Father's  hand. 

"John,"  said  she,  magnanimous  in  defeat,  "have  a  pep- 
permint!" 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  WEEK  on  the  highway,  two  weeks,  and  still  the 
golden  autumn  held  like  a  tranquil  charm.  The  morn- 
ings glowed  through  pearly  mists,  the  days  were  a  chain  of 
amber  hours,  the  evenings  fell  softly  through  Indian  sum- 
mer haze,  colored  like  smoky  topaz,  soft  as  down.  Under 
that  still  and  gentle  sky,  Father  rested  from  all  his  burdened 
thoughts. 

Aunty  relaxed,  too;  at  least  after  the  Captain  had  found 
a  safe  hook  for  Cyrus  and  his  kettle  aboard  the  big  wagon, 
so  that  she  need  no  longer  strain  her  bony  old  knees  by 
carrying  him,  his  heavy  kettle,  and  a  gallon  of  his  native 
element.  Cyrus  was  a  good  traveler,  she  declared  proudly. 
At  least,  he  never  made  any  complaints.  Although  he  surely 
had  grounds  for  complaint,  for  the  constant  jouncing  would 
have  caused  sea-sickness  in  the  most  accustomed  voyager. 
On  rough  stretches  of  road  he  was  not  only  jounced,  he 
was  churned. 

"He  won't  be  a  goldfish  much  longer,  he'll  be  a  butter- 
fish,"  remarked  the  unterrified  Seth.  Luckily,  Aunty's  deaf 
ear  was  turned  his  way. 

Uncle  Joel  had  once  observed  that  Aunty  was  so  de- 
voted to  Cyrus  because  he  neither  tramped  in  mud  nor 
stayed  out  nights.  But  he  had  other  sterling  qualities.  His 
was  the  gift  of  silence.  And  when  you  compared  his  be- 
havior to  that  of  Zenobia,  Queen  of  Palmyra,  you  realized 
his  solid  worth. 

Zenobia  was  different.  Like  every  macaw  since  the  world 
began,  she  had  an  exaggerated  idea  of  her  beauty  and  of  the 


78  THE    FATHER 

privileges  that  it  bestowed  upon  her.  Loudly  she  bewailed 
the  fate  that  had  cast  her  forth  from  the  haven  of  the 
worsted-work  cave.  She  shrieked,  she  squawked,  she  nipped. 
She  scolded  the  little  boys,  she  snarled  at  Father  like  the 
virago  she  was,  and  she  set  up  a  prompt  feud  with  the  old 
Captain. 

Being  very  human  the  Captain  took  vast  comfort  in  giv- 
ing her  sass  for  sass.  With  his  voice  dropped  to  a  madden- 
ing whisper  that  it  might  not  reach  Aunty's  ear,  he  hurled 
affronts  at  Zenobia  that  made  her  squall  for  fury.  Jezebel, 
he  called  her,  right  to  her  outraged  face.  At  sight  of  him 
she  went  into  a  frenzy,  she  beat  her  wings  and  she  clashed 
her  beak. 

"I  wonder  if  the  Captain  ever  gave  her  a  little  smack," 
said  Mercy  to  Adoniram. 

"No,  Sister,  but  the  day  we  started  she  called  him  names, 
and  he  told  her  she  wasn't  no  lady.  And  she's  never  forgot- 
ten it.  I'm  skairt  of  Zenobia  myself.  Captain  says  she's  Mrs. 
Apollyon,  all  diked  out  in  feathers." 

"Of  all  the  ridiculous " 

"  'Taint  ridiculous.  Not  one  bit.  Captain  says,  all  macaws 
are  in  league  with  Satan."  Adoniram  lifted  solemn  eyes. 
"Lucifer  is  their  schoolmaster.  'Stead  of  prayin',  they  scoff. 
'Stead  of  gospel  hymns,  he  teaches  'em  to  holler  blasphemy. 
They  even  wear  his  colors.  Flame  color  on  their  throats,  says 
Captain,  and  blister-scarlet  on  their  tails,  and  sulphur  on 
their  weskits." 

"Never  mind.  Let  Mrs.  Apollyon  alone  and  she  won't 
pester  you.  Now  let's  go  drive  for  Captain,  so  he  can  lie 
down  in  the  wagon  awhile  and  rest." 

Adoniram  needed  no  urging.  Being  the  eldest  of  the 
obstreperous  three  might  have  its  sorrows,  but  it  had  one 
royal  prerogative.  Neither  Seth  nor  Thomas  was  ever 
trusted  with  the  reins.  Alone  Adoniram  rode  on  the  high 


THE    FATHER  79 

seat,  the  heavy  leathers  clutched  in  his  freckled  paws, 
prouder  than  Phaethon. 

The  wagon,  so  shrewdly  packed,  held  a  fascination  of 
its  own.  Father  had  loaned  all  the  family  portraits,  except 
those  of  Grandfather  and  Grandmother,  to  the  little  Green 
River  Museum.  He  had  given  away  scores  of  books,  and 
had  shipped  scores  west  to  the  new  home.  Then,  by  wise 
planning,  he  had  crammed  in  everything  that  they  would 
use  on  the  journey.  Not  just  the  things  that  spelled  absolute 
need,  but  things  for  comfort,  too. 

As  a  result  the  wagon  itself  looked  like  a  traveling 
museum.  Prosaic  necessities  elbowed  pitiful  uprooted  treas- 
ures. Ax  and  water-bucket,  bread-board  and  rolling-pin, 
Aunty's  feather-bed,  the  canvas  hammocks,  a  huge  skillet, 
two  leather-bound  pack-baskets.  Father's  shot-gun,  an  old 
but  efficient  horse-pistol,  Seth's  hapless  pocket-rifle,  Thomas's 
bow  and  arrows.  And  cheek  by  jowl  with  these  stern  mat- 
ters were  the  haughty  old  portraits,  the  fine  and  costly 
furniture,  the  faded  velvet  curtains,  relics  of  a  day  whose 
splendor  was  long  since  past  and  gone. 

Promptly  Grandfather's  portrait  slipped  its  moorings  of 
patchwork  quilt.  His  wall-eye  glared  out  as  if  he  called 
down  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  upon  his  impious  descend- 
ants who  had  snatched  him  from  the  safe  south  wall  where 
he  had  hung  so  many  years.  Grandmother  had  shifted  her 
blanket  drapery,  too.  You  saw  nothing  of  her,  except  her 
chin,  to  be  sure.  But  that  chin  was  eloquent. 

The  furniture  was  even  more  eloquent  in  its  aspect  of 
helpless  protest.  At  the  rear  were  Aunty's  parlor  chairs, 
beautiful  old  rosewood  and  marquetry,  with  cunningly 
woven  rush  seats.  They  stood  bunched  together,  with  the 
seats  stuck  out  backward.  They  wore  an  air  of  frightened 
humiliation,  as  if  they  had  just  been  turned  up  to  be  spanked, 
said  little  Thomas,  with  reminiscent  sympathy. 


8o  THE    FATHER 

Aunty's  pineapple  bed  leaned  fainting  against  the  side 
of  the  wagon,  its  four  fat  pineapples  clutching  up  like  im- 
ploring hands.  Opposite  stood  her  Chippendale  table,  a  piece 
fit  for  a  Signer's  drawing-room,  now  set  against  a  back- 
ground of  lard  pails,  frying-pan,  storm  boots,  and  iron  lan- 
tern. Everything  that  could  be  hung  from  walls  or  roof  was 
thus  suspended,  including  Zenobia's  cage,  still  wearing  its 
bead  overskirt.  Directly  above  it  hung  Cyrus's  kettle.  Oc- 
casionally a  heavy  jolt  would  splash  water  from  Cyrus's 
traveling  tub  down  on  Zenobia,  and  the  protest  that  ensued 
would  rend  the  firmament  on  high.  Luckily,  Cyrus  himself 
never  spilled.  Had  he  done  so,  Zenobia  would  have  gobbled 
him  without  compunction. 

Ponderous  gray  Mouser,  who  had  ruled  Aunty's  kitchen 
for  sixteen  years,  rode  safely  if  obscurely  beneath  the  car- 
riage seat.  Mouser  was  just  two  months  older  than  Mercy. 
"Mercy's  twin,"  as  the  little  boys  called  her,  had  viewed 
Mercy  with  supercilious  eye,  ever  since  their  earliest  youth. 
No  Chinese  cat,  carved  in  pallid  jade  above  a  Chinese  lintel, 
could  win  over  Mouser's  poise.  Even  the  indignity  of  a 
gunny-sack  had  not  shaken  her  royal  calm.  But  occasionally 
the  humiliation  of  her  lowly  place  proved  beyond  enduring. 
At  such  times,  a  surprised  yelp  from  one  of  the  little  boys 
told  that  Mouser  had  avenged  herself  on  a  handy  fat  leg. 

Even  the  under  side  of  the  wagon  carried  its  burden,  and 
a  precious  one.  There  hung  long  slim  branches,  saplings 
and  seedlings  and  cherished  cuttings,  the  cream  of  their 
deep  old  gardens.  Aunty's  quince  seedlings,  the  Duchesse 
d'Angouleme  pears  that  were  Father's  pride,  the  snow 
apples,  the  knotted  ropes  of  Concord  grapes,  the  raspberry 
canes,  the  apricots  and  plums  and  peaches.  Then,  wrapped 
even  more  tenderly  in  their  burlap  cradles,  the  lovely  trees 
of  spring.  Lilac,  syringa  and  smoke  trees  with  their  April 
promise  of  coppery  lace.  Moss-roses,  sweet  as  old  valen- 
tines; spirea,  brought  from  Old  Ipswich  a  hundred  years 


THE    FATHER  81 

ago,  where  it  had  spread  its  pearly  wreaths  for  a  hundred 
years  before;  damask  roses,  forlorn  and  skinny  little  stalks 
to-day,  but  promising  banks  of  ivory  and  crimson  loveli- 
ness for  Mays  to  come.  There  were  canvas  sacks,  too,  that 
gave  out  pungent  odors.  Seth  sniffed  at  them  resentfully. 
Camomile,  sage,  peppermint.  Though  you  fled  to  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth  you'd  never  escape  Aunty's  yarb  tea. 

Each  day  brought  its  fill  of  marvels.  They  ate  of  venison 
— not  the  commonplace  sort,  bought  from  the  Green  River 
butcher's  cart,  but  cut  before  their  ravished  eyes,  from 
the  flank,  still  warm,  of  a  deer  that  Father  himself  had  shot. 
They  stood  on  the  blood-stained  ground,  the  very  sod, 
maybe,  of  the  Mohawk  Massacre.  True,  that  massacre  had 
taken  place  when  Father  was  a  few  years  younger  than 
Thomas,  but  the  thrill  of  it  still  lived.  You  looked  back  of 
you  cautiously;  little  icy  shivers  trickled  down  your  spine. 
No  telling:  at  any  minute  the  thick  hemlock  branches 
might  give  way  to  a  swarming  rush  of  tall  feathered  shapes, 
your  ears  might  ring  to  the  deafening  surge  of  war-whoops. 
Ecstasy!  Ecstasy!  Never  again  such  wonder-joys  as  these. 
For  such  glory  cannot  shine  for  you  nor  for  me.  Never 
again.  Not  after  we're  nine  years  old,  going  on  ten. 

Yet  all  the  youngsters'  rambunctious  happiness  was  a  glory 
thin  and  faint  when  set  against  the  look  on  the  old  Cap- 
tain's face.  For  he  had  been  thrown  aside,  cast  away.  Now 
he  stood,  snatched  back  to  helpfulness,  usefulness,  au- 
thority. He  had  been  old.  But  now  he  was  young. 

Out  of  all  the  travelers  only  Mercy  knew  regret.  For 
the  most  part  she  was  still  such  a  child  that  she  was  carried 
away  by  this  miraculous  new  world  around  her;  but  when 
she  did  remember,  she  was  all  one  ache  of  self-reproach. 
Never  before  had  she  kept  an  hour's  secret  from  Father. 
The  blue  ribbon  tied  beneath  her  ruffled  tucker,  and  carrying 
Lemuel's  carnelian  ring  which  had  cost  a  dollar-fifty  at 
the  postoffice  store,  was  a  millstone  around  her  neck. 


82  THE    FATHER 

Aunty  was  really  the  pride  of  that  long  journey.  Care- 
fully Father  had  planned  for  her  comfort,  in  so  far  as 
comfort  might  be  possible.  To  go  as  far  as  they  could  by 
railroad  would  have  been  much  easier  for  her,  of  course. 
But  Aunty  had  refused  to  discuss  that.  Plenty  of  women- 
folks as  old  as  she,  and  older,  had  traveled  by  covered 
wagon  in  the  years  gone  by.  Plenty  were  still  journeying 
thus,  and  none  the  worse  for  it.  Women- folks  a  sight  bet- 
ter than  she  was,  any  day.  And  here  she  went,  rolling  in 
state  in  the  big  carryall,  with  its  deep  springs,  its  cushions 
packed  close  around  her,  fine  as  any  queen.  More,  there  came 
with  her  her  own  beloved  feather-bed,  hung  on  a  broad 
sailcloth  hammock,  so  she  could  rest  at  night  as  peacefully 
as  in  her  own  cozy  room!  A  pretty  figure  she'd  cut  if  she 
dared  breathe  one  word  of  complaint!  Besides,  hadn't  she 
seen  pictures  of  railroad  trains  that  had  run  off  the  track, 
and  tossed  their  passengers  head-first  into  rivers  and  slammed 
them  against  houses,  and,  far  worse,  spitted  them  on  a 
curling  rail  that  had  pierced  through  the  coach  floor  and 
stood  them  thus  aloft,  holding  them  as  if  ready  for  broiling, 
like  so  many  partridges?  No  such  heathenish  devices  for 
Aunty. 

Besides,  as  she  confided  privately  to  Mercy,  no  real  lady 
would  ever  take  the  chance  of  dying  in  public.  "Think  of 
it,  Mercy  Rose!  How  would  you  feel  being  brought  face 
to  face  with  eternity,  and  you  in  your  chimmy  like  as  not, 
and  maybe  not  even  your  hoops  on!  You'd  never  get  over 
it.  Never  in  this  world." 

So,  having  set  her  course,  Aunty  followed  it  with  not 
one  whimper.  An  aching  old  martyr  but  a  courageous  old 
martyr,  mind  that. 

Although  they  had  planned  to  stop  at  taverns  over  night, 
the  dry  warm  weather  made  it  possible  for  them  to  camp 
instead.  Aunty  and  Mercy  slept  on  the  great  feather-bed 
in  the  wagon,  and  Father  and  the  Captain  swung  up  a  sail- 


THE    FATHER  83 

cloth  hammock  apiece,  for  there  were  always  obliging  neigh- 
borly trees  to  tie  to.  The  little  boys  curled  up  like  so  many 
puppies  on  a  fat  straw  tick  beside  the  camp  fire.  This,  one 
need  not  add,  spelled  the  crowning  rapture. 

To  their  deep  disgust,  their  caravan  need  set  up  no  pro- 
tection against  bears  and  Indians.  However,  they  encamped 
in  the  old  pioneer  way.  A  great  fire  was  built,  for  the  au- 
tumn nights  were  cool.  The  wagons  were  ranged  close  by, 
and  the  horses  were  picketed  some  distance  off.  First,  every- 
body set  to  gathering  sticks  and  brush  for  the  fire.  Then, 
when  it  had  burned  down  to  coals,  the  roasting  ears  and 
the  potatoes  were  tucked  into  the  hot  ashes,  the  big  three- 
footed  skillets  of  squirrels  and  fish  were  set  on  the  coals, 
and  the  coffee  was  put  to  boil.  After  that  luscious  supper, 
how  good  the  warm  rest  by  the  fire,  while  the  stars  stood 
guard  behind  the  swaying  branches,  and  a  round  red  October 
moon  glowed  like  a  lantern  in  the  deep  night  of  the  sky! 

Through  the  mellow  golden  days  they  journeyed  on. 
By  Indian  trails  they  went  as  through  a  sorcerer's  highway, 
roofed  by  green  drooping  branches,  walled  with  the  blood- 
red  tapestry  of  November  oak-trees,  carpeted  by  rustling 
many-colored  leaves.  Pure  pale  gold,  as  softly  gold  as  Miss 
Evelina's  ringlets;  apricot  and  cherry  and  clear  translucent 
crimson;  crimson  of  burning-bush,  crimson  of  sumac, 
carved  fiery  orange  of  bittersweet.  Sculptured  cornices  of 
ivy,  now  tipped  with  fire,  now  darkly,  bravely  green.  On, 
down  the  great  valley,  bound  by  its  mountains  folded  in 
their  eternal  blue.  On,  on. 

Always  the  little  boys  watched  eager-eyed,  their  hearts 
pounding  in  the  fearful  hope  of  Indians.  Indians  in  plenty 
they  saw.  Slouchy  cropheaded  men;  squat  wrinkled  women, 
carrying  their  nests  of  baskets  for  sale;  grim  stolid  chil- 
dren. Always  their  ears  were  alert  to  catch  the  crackle  of 
moccasined  feet  on  the  dry  brush,  the  campfire  flames  in 


84  THE    FATHER 

a  deep  hidden  glade,  the  singing  sting  of  arrows,  the  shrill 
bloodcurdling  wail  of  the  warwhoop. 

"I  guess  the  truly  Indians  have  gone  on  a  visit,"  sighed 
little  Thomas.  But  on  that  very  night,  his  wildest  hope  came 
true.  For  in  dark  and  gloom  and  single  file,  down  the  trail 
towards  them  swung  a  line  of  Iroquois  braves,  in  full  war- 
paint. Lean  tall  bodies,  fierce  painted  faces,  proud  high- 
flung  eagle-feathers:  phantom-dim  against  the  cold  yellow 
sunset  they  strode  by.  Away  they  glimmered,  far  into  the 
dusk.  Wraiths  of  past  splendor,  shadows  of  a  glory  for- 
gotten, they  vanished,  painted  for  one  breath  against  the 
fading  November  sky. 

"Oh,  oh!"  Thomas  shuddered  with  joyful  awe.  "Oh,  if 
they'd  only  have  a  battle,  so's  we  could  stop  and  see ! " 

"I'd  hardly  call  that  a  warrior  band,"  said  Father  dryly. 
Father's  eye  had  caught  their  threadbare  blankets,  their 
torn  and  ragged  moccasins,  their  broken  eagle  feathers. 
Pitiful  vaunting  tag-ends  of  their  once  mighty  tribe,  they 
had  swaggered  past,  they  had  flaunted  their  way  down  their 
last  dark  road,  the  road  to  night. 

But  Thomas  would  have  known  an  even  deeper  thrill, 
had  he  realized  that,  throughout  the  next  two  nights, 
Father  had  sat  close  to  the  wagon,  his  rifle  across  his  knees, 
his  eyes  alert  at  every  crackle  in  the  brush,  peering  sharp  at 
every  shadow.  But  not  in  dread  of  those  forlorn  enemies, 
but  because  this  was  a  lonely  stretch  of  the  road.  And 
strange  and  cruel  things  had  happened  there. 

Now  there  opened  yet  one  more  gate  of  magic.  For  soon 
they  boarded  a  packet  out  of  Albany  for  Buffalo,  by  way 
of  the  Erie  Canal.  Not  one  element  of  that  voyage  escaped 
the  youngsters'  eyes.  The  long  narrow  boat  itself  was  fitted 
so  snugly  into  the  slim  strip  of  water  that  the  two  might 
have  formed  a  Titan  plaything.  The  drivers,  some  of  them 
mere  boys,  who  bawled  and  swaggered  and  cursed,  with  an 
eager  eye   out   for  the  shocked   admiration   of   the   three 


THE    FATHER  85 

little  brothers.  The  regal  captain  in  his  high  boots  and  his 
curly-brim  beaver,  with  his  reverential  bows  to  Aunty,  and 
his  beaming  strut  whenever  Mercy  came  into  view;  a  gal- 
lantry which  Mercy  gazed  upon,  oblivious,  although  a  bit 
flattered  inwardly.  For  how  should  a  woman  betrothed, 
even  though  but  halfway  betrothed,  stoop  to  glance  upon 
an  alien  worshiper? 

The  canal  itself  unfolded  wonder  upon  wonder.  There 
was  Montezuma  Marsh,  where  folks  came  by  scores,  so 
Aunty  told  them,  to  buy  flags  for  rush  chair-seats.  All  six 
of  Aunty's  superb  old  mahogany  chairs  had  soft  lustrous 
seats  of  rushes,  her  pride,  alas,  too  soon  to  be  her  grief. 
All  their  own  chairs  of  rosewood,  inlaid  with  mother  of 
pearl,  part  of  their  young  mother's  dowry,  had  rush  seats, 
too.  So  that  the  great  marsh  held  a  friendly  feeling  of 
home.  Even  now,  in  late  autumn,  it  held  a  wild  and  deso- 
late beauty.  All  around,  as  far  as  eye  could  see,  stretched 
the  vivid  green  of  the  lowlands,  a  living  emerald  against 
the  masses  of  dry  rustling  reeds  and  the  great  brown  papery 
plaques  of  the  water-lily  pads.  All  through  those  dun  reed 
forests  sounded  the  whirr  and  ripple  of  birds,  arriving,  de- 
parting, themselves  so  many  hurrying  pioneers.  The  lonely 
cry  of  the  wild  geese,  the  plaintive  call  of  the  quail,  the  sigh 
and  tremor  of  uncounted  wings.  For,  as  in  the  dry  dead 
reeds  there  lay  the  green  jewel  of  the  deathless  marsh- 
grass,  so  amid  the  lone  cold  marsh  itself  there  awoke  and 
shone  these  jewels  of  eager  life. 

Then  came  the  famous  hill  of  Palmyra,  "The  hill  of 
Cumorah,"  where  the  golden  plates  of  Moroni  were  buried; 
and  after  that,  the  bewildering  lock  at  Fairport.  "How  on 
earth  could  the  canal  climb  so  high?"  inquired  the  puzzled 
Seth.  At  Palmyra,  Thomas  hopefully  desired  to  be  put  off, 
armed  with  the  fire-shovel,  that  he  himself  might  dig  up 
Aladdin's  treasure.  He  was  dissuaded  from  this  glorious 


86  THE    FATHER 

aim  with  much  difficulty.  But  soon  he  had  dried  his  tears, 
absorbed  by  the  endless  panorama  of  the  passengers. 

And  such  passengers !  So  many  folks,  and  all  so  different 
from  the  staid  and  righteous  citizenry  of  Green  River!  The 
vast  stream  of  1854  was  yet  to  come.  But  a  river  of  emi- 
gration was  pouring  down  the  narrow  channel  of  the  canal. 
Stream  on  stream  it  came,  whole  families,  whole  neighbor- 
hoods, whole  townships,  on  their  way  to  the  newer  coun- 
tries, to  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  Missouri,  Kansas. 

And  such  people !  The  women  held  no  vital  interest.  As 
the  Captain  observed,  with  the  sapience  of  eighty-odd, 
wimmen  folks  is  wimmen  folks,  the  world  over.  Rip  'em 
up  by  the  roots,  and  start  'em  traveling,  and  they're  so 
many  scairt  lost  cats.  Tired,  harried,  hopeful,  despondent, 
they  carried  their  heavy,  squirming,  squalling  babies,  and 
tagged  after  their  men.  The  very  cores  of  their  homes, 
the  leaven  of  life  they  might  be,  yet  worn  to  listlessness, 
dazed,  spent,  they  seemed  no  more  than  the  autumn  leaves 
that  blew  along  the  shores. 

But  the  men!  Back  on  their  rocky  little  farms,  toiling 
in  dull  villages,  they  too  might  have  been  listless  and  de- 
pressed. But  now,  swept  out  of  their  narrow  ruts  by  this 
mighty  torrent,  this  sweep  of  motion,  this  change  on  change 
was  as  new  blood  in  their  veins.  Adventurers,  explorers, 
pioneers  by  rooted  instinct,  they  thrust  on.  They  were  as 
men  coming  into  their  birthright,  coming  in  confidence,  in 
unquestioning  hope.  Their  shoulders  lifted,  their  strides 
grew  proud,  they  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  tall.  And 
clutching  their  household  goods,  dragging  their  children, 
their  women  tagged  at  their  cocksure  heels. 

Tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor — they  were  all  there,  just 
as  on  Mercy's  outgrown  button-string.  Roaring  lumbermen, 
down  from  the  northern  forests.  Sturdy,  red-faced  drovers, 
west-bound  to  take  up  wider  pastures;  spruce  young  officers 
ordered  to  distant  forts,  puffed  up  with  a  little  brief  author- 


THE    FATHER  87 

ity.  Land  agents,  a  swarm  of  them.  Some  of  them  were 
men  of  probity.  But  a  sad  majority  were  as  thorough-paced 
scoundrels  as  ever  dodged  a  rope. 

One  of  these  dubious  gentlemen,  a  youngish  man  named 
Norris,  made  of  himself  a  special  irritation  to  Father 
throughout  the  six  days'  journey.  He  badgered  him  con- 
stantly with  glittering  offers,  until  Father  longed  to  take 
him  by  the  scruff  of  his  impudent  neck,  and  chuck  him  into 
the  canal.  "Only,"  as  he  complained  to  Mercy,  "that  sort 
would  swim  out  before  he  struck  the  water." 

Finally,  under  repeated  snubs,  Norris  subsided.  But  he 
was  a  brazen  sort,  and  no  snub  could  silence  him  for  long. 

Through  the  blue-and-gold  days,  the  big  boat  moved  to 
a  quaint  mingled  measure.  The  ring  of  the  captain's  voice, 
the  tired  crooning  of  the  mothers  to  their  broods,  the  crack 
of  the  drivers'  whips,  made  a  constant  rhythm.  But  when 
twilight  came,  and  the  huge  whaleoil  lamps  were  lighted  in 
the  cabin,  the  boat  rocked  and  swayed  with  song.  A  mid- 
century  traveler  once  set  it  down  as  a  fact  that  these  later 
pioneers  did  not  merely  travel  west,  they  argued  and 
wrangled  every  inch  of  their  way  west.  But  in  their  more 
mellow  hours,  they  sang  and  played  their  way  west,  no 
doubt  of  that.  They  brought  out  their  flutes  and  violins,  and 
also  their  dulcimers,  their  accordions  and  their  mouth- 
organs.  There  was  hardly  a  soul  aboard  but  could  carry  a 
tune.  Or  at  least,  there  was  hardly  a  soul  who  did  not  pos- 
sess a  touching  confidence  in  his  talents  for  melody.  Night 
after  night,  the  old  songs  resounded  over  lonely  black 
marshes,  through  dim  forest  trails.  The  Junifer  Tree;  Oh, 
Susannah;  The  Jay  Bird's  Altar;  Jim  Along,  Jim  Along, 
Josie;  Far  Beyond  the  Northern  Sea — the  very  stars  must 
dance  to  these  rollicking  old  airs. 

Soon  one  voice  would  lift  a  graver  note.  Then  the  whole 
cabinful  would  join  in  a  noble  old  hymn.  Following  the 
hymn,  some  ardent  nature  would  be  moved  to  rise  up  and 


88  THE    FATHER 

address  the  passengers.  Sometimes  three  or  four  earnest 
speakers  would  be  on  their  feet  at  once.  The  topics  of  their 
discourse  varied,  from  the  end  of  the  world — which  was 
scheduled  by  a  large  element  for  the  following  April — to 
personal  opinions  concerning  various  public  servants,  from 
the  President  on  down.  Very  personal  opinions,  these  were, 
and  the  evening  would  reach  a  speedy  climax  when  several 
indignant  champions  would  spring  up  to  defend  their  favor- 
ites. However,  the  captain  kept  an  eagle  eye  on  events.  Just 
as  the  evening  reached  the  boiling  point,  he  would  stride 
to  the  front,  seize  on  a  flushed  vituperative  orator,  and 
propel  him  rapidly  to  the  narrow  deck.  There,  in  the  cool- 
ing starlight,  he  would  urge  the  disputant  to  cool  off  and 
be  quick  about  it,  or  else  take  to  the  tow-path.  Invariably 
this  method  worked  like  magic.  That  is,  until  the  boat 
reached  the  landing  at  Lockport. 

At  Lockport,  Freedom's  Band  came  aboard,  en  route 
for  Buffalo. 

At  first  glance,  Freedom's  Band  looked  appealingly  inno- 
cent. It  was  a  quartette;  two  apple-cheeked  young  soprano 
sisters,  two  husky  young  basso  brothers.  They  were  travel- 
ing through  the  Middle  West,  giving  concerts  in  every 
settlement,  in  every  schoolhouse,  even.  Between  them  they 
lugged  two  violins,  a  flute,  a  clarinet,  a  French  horn,  and 
a  small  but  efficient  drum.  Every  one  of  them  could  double 
in  brass  at  the  slightest  provocation.  Every  one  of  them 
could  sing  as  sings  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate.  But  their 
vocal  programs  were  made  up  of  anti-slavery  songs  of  a 
violence  that  would  rouse  wild  enthusiasm  and  even  wilder 
fury  in  any  partisan  audience.  So  that  they  were  quite  as 
safe  an  addition  to  this  emotional  passenger  list  as  so  many 
lively  young  charges  of  dynamite. 

They  devoted  their  first  evening  aboard  to  instrumental 
music.  This  was  a  fortunate  choice.  Even  the  captain  re- 
laxed his  vigilance,  and  sat  happily  keeping  time  with  a 


THE    FATHER  89 

large  varnished  boot  to  the  March  of  Chafultej>ecy  and  My 
Ladylove  Polka.  On  the  second  evening,  the  passengers 
crowded  eagerly  into  the  forward  cabin,  all  agog  for  the 
new  program. 

The  four  sturdy  young  folks  stepped  upon  the  dais  and 
scraped  and  curtsied  charmingly.  The  two  girls,  engaging 
young  creatures  in  flounced  pink  satin  crinolines,  their  yel- 
low hair  piled  into  massive  birds'  nests,  their  round  faces 
beaming,  stepped  forward  and  lifted  up  their  voices. 
Through  the  packed  little  room  rang  their  deafening  young 
entreaty : 

"We'll  strike  the  fetters  from  the  slave. 
We'll  blot  this  shame  from  our  fair  land " 

Then  like  the  crash  of  thunder,  the  two  powerful  broth- 
ers came  storming  in 

"Do  you  belong  to  Freedom's  Band!" 

The  splendid  voices  rang  in  a  tremendous  challenge. 
Over  the  staring  upturned  faces,  there  blazed  an  answering 
flame. 

A  moment  of  dead  silence.  Then  a  score  of  passengers 
leaped  to  their  feet. 

"Hooray!"  "Glory  Hallelujah!"  "Throw  them  into  the 

canal,  the  nigger-stealers!"  "Take  your  hands  ofTen 

them  wimmen-folks,  or  I'll " 

One  minute  ago  the  room  had  been  a  decorous  assem- 
blage of  crinolines  and  frock  coats.  Now  it  was  a  frantic, 
seething  mob. 

Father  scooped  up  the  little  boys  and  crammed  them 
into  the  nearest  berth.  He  seized  on  Mercy  and  thrust  her 
behind  him. 

The  captain  caught  Father's  eye. 

"Grab  'em!"  he  shouted.  He  made  a  clutch  for  three 
overwrought  gentlemen  who  had  seized  on  the  two  burly 


90  THE    FATHER 

brothers  and  were  dragging  them  off  the  dais.  The  pink- 
satin  sisters  were  shrieking  at  the  top  of  their  strong  lungs, 
and  trying  to  haul  their  brothers  back.  "Be  quick,  will  you?" 

Father  was  quick.  He  caught  two  vociferous  partisans  by 
their  rearing  velvet  collars,  jerked  open  the  big  double 
doors  and  shoved  them  outside.  The  captain  followed,  hus- 
tling three  more.  With  unbelievable  speed,  he  pushed  all  five 
over  the  edge  of  the  deck. 

They  landed  waist-deep  in  the  cold  canal  water,  splut- 
tering, heaving,  squawking.  The  captain  whirled  back  and 
faced  the  mob. 

"Any  more  of  you  want  to  swim  to  Buffalo ?"  he  bawled 
at  the  astounded  crowd. 

The  hullabaloo  stopped  as  if  the  mob  had  been  stricken 
dumb.  There  fell  a  dazed  silence. 

Then,  like  a  scene  in  some  preposterous  play,  over  the 
deck-edge  scrambled  two  drenched  and  sodden  figures. 
Pop-eyed  and  clawing,  they  floundered  on  board.  Their 
long  locks  and  their  whiskers  dripped  with  water. 

From  the  crowded  room  there  rose  a  shout  that  might 
have  split  the  packet  roof.  A  shout  of  wild  Homeric  laugh- 
ter. 

One  minute  ago,  the  mob  had  grazed  black  tragedy.  But 
all  that  wild  mob  fury  fell  away,  snuffed  out  by  even 
wilder  mirth. 

Over  the  deck  crawled  another  drenched,  snorting  ob- 
ject, another,  another.  Across  the  narrow  deck  they 
clumped,  dripping.  Red-faced  and  sheepish,  they  scuttled 
through  the  forward  saloon  to  the  calico-draped  recesses 
of  the  women's  cabin.  The  howls  of  laughter  followed 
them,  a  mounting  wave.  And  with  that  laughter,  the  whole 
crowd  grew  magically  serene. 

"Nothing  like  a  good  laugh,  to  pacify  folks."  The  cap- 
tain turned  to  Father,  with  a  grin  of  relief. 

"If  only  they  stay  pacified."  Father  grinned  back  at  him. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

"  A  THIRD  of  our  journey  past,  yet  we  all  survive. 
-*\.  Blessed  be  monotony !" 

Father  stood  on  the  dock  at  Buffalo  in  the  midst  of  the 
swirling  crowd.  Out  of  that  tangle  one  figure  stood  out 
sharp  and  clear.  No  wonder.  This  apparition  was  an  elderly 
man,  tall,  solid,  bronzed  to  saddle-color.  But  it  was  not 
his  face,  it  was  his  clothing  that  caught  the  eye  and  held  it 
spell-bound  between  amazement  and  wild,  unseemly  mirth. 
He  wore  a  single  garment  of  checked  blue  cotton,  of  the 
identical  material  used  for  Thomas's  infant  pinafores,  but 
it  was  not  a  pinafore  in  cut.  A  chiton,  rather.  It  hung 
straight  from  his  wide  shoulders  in  alarmingly  classic  lines, 
fastened  none  too  securely  by  a  black  shawl  pin.  His  mus- 
cular arms  were  uncovered,  and  his  strong  lean  legs  were 
as  bare  as  a  Highlander's;  his  massive  feet  were  thrust  into 
sandals  the  size  of  small  scows.  Over  his  chest  flowed  his 
uncut  beard,  a  grizzled  flood  that  reached  his  waist.  His 
large  round  guileless  face  was  rosy  with  soap  and  water, 
his  blue  frock  was  spotless  and  starched  till  it  swung  out 
from  his  bony  calves  like  a  giant  lamp-shade.  His  beard 
looked  scoured  and  starched  too.  The  equipment  he  carried 
suggested  a  Roman  soldier  in  light  marching  order.  A  small 
dishpan  hung  over  his  chest,  like  a  diminutive  shield.  A 
skillet,  a  hair-brush,  and  several  artless  toilet  articles  were 
tied  to  its  handle.  Small  sacks  of  potatoes  and  onions,  meal 
and  salt,  were  lashed  to  his  back.  He  caught  Father's  eye 
and  beamed. 

"I  am  the  Apostle  of  the  Clean  Hand,"  he  introduced 
himself.  "Cleanliness  is  the  cornerstone  of  my  faith.  I  eat 


92  THE    FATHER 

no  food,  save  that  which  I  myself  prepare.  I  use  no  dish 
nor  linen  that  I  myself  have  not  cleansed.  I  use  no  buttons, 
you  see,  for  they  are  a  temptation  to  vanity.  I  have  never 
cut  my  beard,"  he  caressed  the  amazing  ornament  with  a 
blandly  gratified  hand,  "for  I  mar  not  the  image  of  God, 
which  I  myself  am.  I  am  an  Owenite,  a  Fourierite,  a  Veg- 
etarian, a  Grahamite.  Also,  I  am  a  phrenologist  and  an 
astrologer,  with  some  leanings  to  Spiritualism.  And  above 
all  things,  I  am  an  Abolitionist." 

Mr.  Stafford  gulped. 

"But  to-day  I  am  minded  to  put  aside  my  raiment  of 
peace  and  take  on  the  armor  of  wrath.  Among  these  incom- 
ing passengers  there  is  a  land  agent,  one  Norris  by  name, 
who  has  done  me  great  wrong.  By  trickery  he  brought  me 
to  accept  a  deed  to  land  in  Indiana  which  he  avowed  to 
be  a  very  Garden  of  Eden,  but  which  I  find  to  be  but  marsh 
and  swamp,  with  not  one  rood  of  good  plow  soil.  No  man 
of  law  will  take  my  case.  So  I  have  come  to  meet  him 
here  and  counsel  with  him  upon  the  error  of  his  ways." 

Mr.  Stafford  looked  pityingly  at  this  guileless  elderly 
child.  If  no  lawyer  would  take  his  case  he  could  counsel 
till  the  cows  came  home,  for  all  the  good  it  would  do  him. 

"He  is  expected  on  this  packet.  So  I  have  walked  many 
weary  miles Ah,  sir,  there  he  comes  now!" 

Head  high,  his  ferret  face  rosy,  his  diamonds  glittering, 
Norris  strode  from  the  cabin. 

"Wonder  what  he'll  say  to  the  scamp!" 

Amused  and  pitying,  Father  stepped  forward.  But  only 
a  step.  For  in  the  twink  of  an  eye,  the  Apostle  had  forgotten 
all  the  mild  persuasion  that  lay  upon  his  tongue.  With  a 
bellow  anything  but  apostolic,  he  flung  himself  across  the 
deck  and  landed  on  Norris  with  a  thud. 

Norris  fell  back  against  the  cabin  wall. 

Those  were  the  good  old  times  when  men  fought  at  the 


THE    FATHER  93 

drop  of  a  hat,  or  without  it.  Among  the  milling  crowd  were 
several  men  who  held  bitter  grudges  against  Norris.  Others 
of  his  own  cloth  rushed  to  his  rescue.  A  large  faction,  who 
knew  nothing  of  what  this  fracas  might  be  about,  but  who 
loved  a  fight  for  the  fight's  sake,  hurled  themselves  gladly 
into  the  melee.  In  three  seconds  the  whole  dock  was  a  mag- 
nificent free-for-all.  Everybody  came  gleefully  in.  Sailors, 
laborers,  canal-drivers,  passengers;  even  the  high  and  mighty 
young  army  men  and  the  lordly  judge  in  his  fine  furred 
coat  threw  all  dignity  to  the  winds,  and  sailed  in,  heart 
and  soul,  fists  and  feet. 

Nobody  protested.  Nobody  sent  in  a  riot  call.  In  those 
happy  days,  there  were  no  such  things  as  riot  calls.  Besides, 
to  interfere  would  mean  a  grave  infraction  of  vested 
rights. 

Alone  of  all  the  crowd,  Mr.  Stafford  was  not  yearning 
for  a  fist-fight.  He  thrust  his  way,  bruised  and  furious,  out 
of  the  mob.  But  as  he  struggled  free,  there  rose  a  whoop. 
The  Apostle  had  slammed  Norris  back  against  the  cabin 
again,  and  was  flailing  him  right  and  left  with  both  large, 
clean,  powerful  hands.  Given  two  minutes  more  he  would 
have  polished  off  the  job  to  a  T.  But  Norris's  friends,  with 
regrettable  loyalty,  rushed  him  from  the  rear.  The  Apostle 
turned  to  beat  back  his  assailants.  Instantly  Norris  leaped 
on  his  shoulders  and  hurled  him  backward.  He  pitched 
down,  crashed  on  the  stone  dock,  and  rolled  over,  limp. 
The  gang  closed  in  on  him  like  wolves. 

Mr.  Stafford  shot  into  the  crowd.  He  grabbed  the  fallen 
Apostle  and  dragged  him  inside  the  warehouse  door.  Half 
a  dozen  partisans  then  jumped  on  Norris  and  his  crew.  One 
enthusiast  wielded  a  crowbar  with  notable  results,  another 
did  execution  with  a  bung-starter.  Norris,  realizing  that  the 
fight  was  turning  against  him,  vanished  like  quicksilver. 

The  crowd,  refreshed  and  rambunctious,  indulged  in  a 


94  THE    FATHER 

few  more  yells  and  a  scuffle  or  so,  then  melted  amiably 
away.  There  remained  only  the  bruised  and  dusty  Apostle, 
the  packet  captain,  who,  now  that  the  storm  was  over,  had 
ventured  from  his  own  cabin,  and  was  making  stern  offi- 
cial inquiries,  and  Mr.  Stafford,  one  sleeve  torn  out  of 
his  Sabbath  coat  and  his  stock  rearing  furiously  under  one 
ear. 

"So  this  is  what  you  call  brotherly  counsel,  eh?"  He 
braced  the  Apostle's  head  against  his  knee,  and  splashed  him, 
not  too  tenderly,  with  a  bucket  of  water. 

The  Apostle  revived,  looked  up  with  a  sheepish  grin. 

"I  will  own  that  my  sinful  mortality  was  too  much  for 
me.  But  my  evil  nature  has  won  for  me  some  gain." 

"It's  won  you  a  black  eye  and  some  ugly  bruises." 

"You  fail  to  understand.  In  my  dealings  with  this  land 
shark,  I  observed  that  he  carried  his  riches  in  a  wallet,  in- 
stead of  wearing  a  gold  belt,  as  do  sensible  men.  So,  when 
I  first  grappled  with  him,  I  tore  out  the  wallet  and  hurled  it 
from  me  as  far  as  I  could.  In  that  turmoil,  I  felt  sure  that 
no  one  would  notice  my  act.  So  I  presume  the  wallet  is  still 
where  it  fell.  It  landed,  I  believe,  in  yon  bunch  of  weeds." 

Again  Mr.  Stafford  gulped.  Groggy  but  serene,  the  Apos- 
tle floundered  to  his  feet,  stumbled  across  the  wharf,  and 
dived  into  the  dusty  clump.  He  returned,  still  groggy,  but 
still  serene.  He  opened  the  wallet  and  rummaged  through 
it.  It  held  a  fat  roll  of  bills,  and  a  bundle  of  legal  papers. 
From  these  he  fished  out  the  note  that  he  had  given  on  his 
worthless  place. 

"Just  as  I  supposed.  This  is  well  worth  a  black  eye,  my 
friend.  It  rescues  me  from  the  misery  of  bondage.  More- 
over, I  shall  take  a  few  of  these  bills,  to  pay  for  my  jour- 
ney, as  well  as  to  recompense  me  for  the  money  already  so 
unjustly  paid." 

Mr.  Stafford  got  his  breath  with  an  effort. 


THE    FATHER  95 

"You  mean  you'll  take  his  wallet?  Why,  man,  Norn's 
will  have  a  posse  out  for  you  in  two  shakes." 

"I  think  not.  I  shall  return  to  him  by  mail  all  the  con- 
tents of  the  wallet,  except  what  is  rightly  my  own.  Then 
it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  shall  be  wise  to  leave  the  city 
at  once.  In  a  private  conveyance.  I  trust,  sir,  that  you  will 
give  me  a  seat  in  your  wagon  as  far  as  you  go?" 

Father  opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  Then  he  shut  it  again. 

He  went  in  search  of  Aunty.  Aunty  received  him  with 
infuriating  calm. 

"Fixin'  to  adopt  another  orphan?" 

"I  have  no  choice  about  it.  If  we  abandon  the  Apostle 
here,  there's  no  telling  what  Norris  will  do  to  him.  At  least 
we  can  squeeze  up  and  carry  him  as  far  as  the  Indiana 
border." 

"Well."  Aunty's  eye  was  as  cold  as  Cyrus's  own.  "S'pose 
we  can  stand  him  if  we  got  to.  But  stop  at  the  very  next 
settlement  and  buy  some  jeans  and  I'll  cobble  him  up  a 
pair  of  breeches.  I  won't  have  him  careerin'  around  with 
nothing  on  but  a  check  gingham  apron." 

Father  broached  the  topic  of  pants.  But  the  Apostle 
vetoed  them  with  emphasis. 

"Pants  are  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  They  are  food  for 
vanity." 

"But  they  are  an  established  custom " 

"There  lies  your  Bible,  sir.  It  has  many  sacred  pictures. 
I  have  seen  them.  Do  you  find  the  patriarchs  and  the 
prophets  wearing  pants?   Never." 

Aunty  sighed. 

"S'pose  we  got  to  stand  it.  Hope  we  don't  meet  up  with 
many  travelers,  that's  all  I  got  to  say.  You  have  to  take 
him  along,  though,  seeing  that  he's  a  brother  Abolitionist." 

Father  bit  off  a  brief  but  poignant  word.  Aunty  didn't 
mean  to  be  so  enraging.  But  it  would  be  some  comfort,  if 


96  THE    FATHER 

just  one  of  his  placid  Laodicean  household  could  under- 
stand. 

He  glanced  at  Mercy.  She  was  looking  away  up  the  white 
road  to  the  east.  Her  eyes  were  dark  stars.  What  was  it 
she  gazed  at?  Was  it  the  face  of  Lemuel  G.  Crowther?  Did 
she  catch  a  whiff  of  bergamot? 

The  Apostle  made  himself  willingly  at  home.  Quite  too 
much  at  home.  His  was  the  gift  of  tongues,  and  he  used 
it  in  season  and  out  of  season.  High  on  the  driver's  seat, 
the  old  Captain  scowled  and  growled  about  folks  that  got 
themselves  up  in  women's  duds,  but  thought  they  was  so 
gosh-dingit  smart  that  they  could  hand  out  advice  to  a  man 
who  had  driven  horses  before  they'd  cut  their  teeth.  Back 
in  the  carryall  Aunty  smoldered  and  thought  up  cutting 
retorts  to  his  generous  criticism  of  her  cooking,  which  wasn't 
such  poor  eating  as  might  be,  but  which  was  badly  planned 
and  not  too  clean, — this  to  Aunty! — and  of  a  wastefulness 
which  would  bring  her  to  the  poorhouse,  long  before  her 
day  was  spent.  His  cup  ran  over,  full  measure,  with  unasked 
advice  and  well-meant  rebuke.  He  even  poured  it  over 
Mercy  when  they  stopped  for  Sunday  at  a  village,  and  she 
put  on  her  best  blue  delaine  and  her  Chantilly  shawl. 

"Sinful  folly,  these  gauds.  Sinful  folly " 

He  rose  at  gray  dawn,  before  even  the  little  boys  awoke, 
and  sang  hymns  in  a  voice  that  jarred  the  monarchs  of  the 
forest  around  him.  He  was  as  vinegar  to  the  eyes;  as  sand- 
paper to  the  spirit.  He  was  cleanly  of  body,  he  was  honest 
and  industrious,  he  was  cheerful  and  helpful  and  righteous 
in  all  things.  And  your  one  earthly  desire  was  to  tie  him 
up  in  his  blue  gingham  apron  and  cast  him  into  the  depths 
of  the  sea. 

At  length,  a  pitying  Providence  took  a  hand.  At  a  cross- 
road they  met  another  caravan.  This  caravan  was  taking  a 


THE    FATHER  97 

road  that  would  bring  it  within  sixty  miles  of  the  Apostle's 
village.  Promptly  the  Apostle  invited  himself  to  join  them. 
In  fact,  he  had  given  both  invitation  and  acceptance  before 
the  leader  could  catch  his  astonished  breath.  Fondly  the 
Apostle  bade  them  all  good-by,  warned  Aunty  against  the 
evils  of  vanity — "Turn  from  the  errors  of  your  ways, 
my  sister,  else  those  feathers  in  your  bonnet  will  scorch 
over  hell-fire" — adjured  Father  that  he  need  expect  noth- 
ing but  evil  in  this  world  if  he  did  not  stop  earing  bacon 
for  breakfast;  warned  the  Captain  that  no  tobacco-chewer 
could  inherit  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven;  and  promised  to 
come  to  the  Sangamon  country  soon  and  make  them  a  good 
long  visit. 

As  the  caravan  departed,  Aunty  looked  at  Father.  Father 
grinned  sheepishly  back. 

"Don't  feel  so  cheap,  John.  No  doubt  but  he  was  an 
instrument  appointed  to  us  for  chastening.  And  I  got  used 
to  that  heathen  rig,  'specially  after  it  turned  so  chilly,  he  had 
to  wrap  up  in  my  Paisley  shawl." 

"We'll  have  easy  sailing  now,"  vowed  the  Captain,  and 
flourished  a  sardonic  plug  towards  the  departing  Adviser. 

Vain  hope.  Their  blue  and  gold  Indian  summer  vanished 
under  driving  squalls  of  rain.  They  took  refuge  in  a  filthy 
tavern,  where  Aunty  slept  sitting  up  in  one  chair  with  her 
feet  on  another;  a  haunted  sleep.  Three  times  a  day  they 
were  fed  bitter  boiled  coffee  and  greasy  salt  pork  and  huge 
slab-sided  biscuit  streaked  green  with  saleratus. 

After  the  first  meal  Mercy  went  in  search  of  the  land- 
lady. She  was  a  stout  and  slapdash  female  who  sat  by  the 
fire  and  chewed  spruce  gum  and  shuddered  comfortably 
over  a  blood-and-thunder  novel.  Mercy  asked  permission  to 
bring  in  their  own  provisions  and  cook  for  the  family  her- 
self. The  slovenly  landlady  made  no  objection.  But  Aunty 


98  THE    FATHER 

said  no.  "Think  I  could  swallow  even  our  own  vittles  if 
they  were  once  carried  through  that  kitchen?"  She  shud- 
dered at  the  thought. 

They  set  off  as  soon  as  the  storm  was  over.  But  now  all 
the  demons  that  beset  the  traveler  swooped  down.  Indian 
summer  yielded  to  a  week  of  squaw  winter.  It  grew  colder 
and  colder.  A  silvery  rime  touched  the  water-pails  at  day- 
break. Ribbons  of  frost  lay  in  the  rutted  road.  Father  and 
the  old  Captain  shivered  in  their  canvas  hammocks,  and 
Mercy  insisted  on  taking  the  little  boys  into  the  covered 
wagon  at  night. 

After  that  their  nights  were  Bedlam,  for  Thomas  kicked 
and  flounced,  and  Adoniram  talked  in  his  sleep,  thus  rous- 
ing Zenobia  to  injured  squawks;  and  Seth,  even  in  his  slum- 
bers, could  conjure  up  devastation.  Twice  he  rolled  over  and 
upset  the  dim-lit  lantern,  which  hung  at  the  rear  of  the 
wagon.  The  second  time  it  exploded,  and  if  Father  had  not 
leaped  up  and  smothered  the  flame  with  his  blanket,  wagon 
and  family  and  all  would  have  gone  up  in  smoke. 

Not  thirty  miles  from  the  tavern,  Button  went  lame. 
They  crawled  at  a  snail's  pace  for  days.  Their  frequent  halts 
gave  the  little  boys  ample  time  to  scout  around  and  explore 
the  woods  near  by.  Of  course  Thomas  promptly  got  lost, 
and  half  a  day  of  agonizing  search  went  by,  before  Father 
came  upon  his  youngest,  stuck  to  his  arm-pits  in  a  swamp, 
and  weeping  like  a  fountain. 

"Quicksands.  Thank  Heaven  they  weren't  deep  enough 
to  smother  him."  Father  dropped  down,  pale  as  ashes. 

By  the  time  Mercy  had  scraped  the  mire  off  Thomas  and 
stripped  him  and  boiled  him  until  he  looked  like  a  repentant 
little  lobster,  and  plastered  him  with  camphor  and  mutton 
tallow  against  the  croup,  it  was  not  worth  while  to  set  off 
till  morning.  And  by  morning  Thomas  and  his  brothers 
were  fresh  and  energetic  again  and  ready  for  high  emprise. 


THE    FATHER  99 

Seth,  racing  ahead,  saw  a  small  grayish  mound  under  a 
tangle  of  wild  grape  vines.  From  immemorial  instinct,  he 
let  fly  a  rock.  Promptly  the  gray  mound  exploded.  Ex- 
ploded into  a  humming  cloud  of  yellow-jackets.  Seth  de- 
parted with  alacrity.  Unluckily  the  Captain,  directly  be- 
hind him,  was  leading  Button  and  Betsy  down  to  the  creek. 
The  first  yellow-jacket  got  in  a  quick  jab  at  Button.  But- 
ton forgot  his  lame  leg.  He  plunged,  reared,  knocked  the 
old  man  flat,  and  went  careering  through  the  trammeling 
vines  like  Pegasus  turned  loose.  Betsy  was  not  so  fortu- 
nate. One  heavy  withe  took  a  turn  around  her  foreleg.  As 
she  charged  ahead,  the  leg  doubled  under  her.  She  went 
down  headlong,  kicking  crazily.  Father  dashed  to  her 
rescue,  only  to  be  hurled  back  by  a  flying  squadron  of  yel- 
low-jackets. He  fled  back  to  Aunty  and  tore  the  Paisley 
shawl  from  her  shoulders. 

"John!  Don't  you  dare  go  back.  They'll  sting  your  eyes 
out!" 

"Father,  they'll  kill  Betsy!— Oh,  oh !" 

"Confound  the  yellow-jackets! — Confound  Betsy!  It's 
the  Captain!  He's  trapped  in  those  vines,  he's  sprawled 
right  against  the  nest!  They'll  sting  him  to  death." 

Half  blinded  by  the  shawl,  Father  rushed  stumbling 
back.  The  Captain,  still  struggling  in  the  vines,  raised  a 
warning  shout: 

"Hey,  Stafford!  Let  me  alone!  Keep  out!  Get  away,  ye 
donnerd  fool!" 

"What  in  the  nation " 

"I'm  bee-proof,  I  tell  ye.  Been  stung  from  head  to  foot, 
a  thousand  times  over.  But  they  can't  pizen  me.  Never  did. 
Never  will." 

A  cloud  of  yellow-jackets  buzzed  around  him,  darting 
at  his  face,  crawling  over  his  hands.  He  tore  the  withes 
free,  stood  up,  and  brushed  the  angry  swarm  away  like  so 


ioo  THE    FATHER 

many  midges.  "Here,  gimme  that  shawl,  I'll  flap  'em  away 
from  your  head  while  you  haul  Betsy  to  her  feet." 

"Betsy's  leg  is  broken.  I  know  it.  The  kindest  thing  I  can 
do  is  to  shoot  her." 

"Fiddlesticks.  Get  her  up,  I  tell  you.  Here!  Hey!" 

He  flapped  and  he  flourished.  Father,  batting  his  eyes 
frantically  against  malicious  stings,  slashed  away  the  vines, 
and  jerked  Betsy  to  her  feet.  Mad  with  pain,  she  tore 
down  the  trail,  Father  clinging  to  her  head.  She  ran  half 
a  mile  before  Father  could  drag  her  to  a  stop.  When  she 
slowed  down  at  last  she  was  wild-eyed  and  foaming.  Her 
velvet  nostrils  were  cruelly  stung,  her  shoulders  dappled 
with  lumps. 

"We'll  tie  her  up  to  a  sapling  and  slap  on  mud,"  the 
Captain  said,  taking  command.  "You  boys  fill  up  the  pails, 
then  keep  a'sloshin'.  If  we  can  hold  her  quiet  till  it  dries, 
she'll  be  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

"Mud  poultices  on  a  horse ! " 

"If  you  don't  put  'em  on,  you'll  have  a  dead  horse  by 
morning.  She's  got  enough  pizen  aboard  her  to  sink  a  ship." 

Everybody  set  to  work.  Everybody  kept  a'sloshin'  and 
a'sloshin'.  Poor  Betsy  was  a  wise  creature.  Instantly  aware 
of  that  healing  coolness,  she  stood  like  a  lamb.  Many  hands 
made  light  work,  but  somewhat  reckless  work.  Everybody 
got  sloshed  as  well  as  Betsy.  At  last,  Betsy  stood  clay  from 
mane  to  hoofs,  looking  like  the  model  for  an  equestrian 
statue. 

"You'll  have  to  shear  that  mane  off.  The  mud  will  never 
wash  out.  Looky  here,  while  we're  at  it,  we  better  plaster 
you  up,  too.  You  got  a  pair  of  black  eyes  ahead  of  you, 
certain  sure." 

Aunty  had  already  poured  camphor  on  Father's  stings. 
But  he  submitted  to  a  thick  layer  of  clay  as  meekly  as 


THE    FATHER  101 

Betsy  herself.  He  ate  his  supper  with  some  difficulty,  for  his 
lips  swelled  to  his  cheek-bones. 

"Better  stop  off  a  day,"  advised  the  Captain.  "Betsy  is 
considerable  bunged  up,  and  Button  has  managed  to  jam 
his  shoulder  again.  And  it  won't  hurt  you  to  get  some  extry 
sleep." 

Father  seized  the  opportunity.  He  slept  like  a  log 
through  the  morning.  But  at  noon  he  was  awakened  by  a 
deafening  uproar.  He  tumbled  out  of  his  blankets  to  see  his 
family  go  pelting  down  the  slope  to  the  creek,  like  figures 
on  a  demented  frieze.  The  Captain  galloped  ahead.  He  ran 
so  fast  that  his  blue  coattails  stood  out  straight  in  the  breeze. 

"What  in  the  mischief "  Father  grabbed   for  his 

boots  and  joined  the  chase. 

The  Captain  reached  the  creek  edge,  stooped:  there  rose 
a  wail  of  utter  anguish.  Aunty's  voice. 

"Oh!  Oh,  Captain,  what  have  you  done!  Oh,  I  told  you 
he  was  dying,  to  put  him  in  the  water,  quick.  But  I  meant, 
into  the  bucket }  not  the  creek!  Now  he'll  swim  away,  and 
I'll  never,  never  see  him  again!" 

"Who's  dying?  What  in  pity's  name " 

Then  it  all  dawned  on  Father.  He  sat  down  feebly  on 
the  nearest  stump.  When  he  rose  up,  he  was  weak  and  spent, 
but  he  had  conquered  the  godless  mirth  that  almost  over- 
whelmed him.  His  features  composed  to  decent  sympathy,  he 
hastened  to  the  creek. 

Aunty  turned,  her  poor  face  wet  with  tears. 

"It  was  all  Seth's  doing " 


"But,  Aunty,  I  didn't  mean  to " 

"Didn't  mean  to,  lived  in  a  lean-to!  I'd  brought  Cyrus's 
kettle  out  to  give  him  some  fresh  water.  Seth  and  Adoniram 
were  scuffling,  and  between  'em  they  tipped  over  the  kettle, 
Cyrus  and  all.  I  hear  a  yell  from  Adoniram,  and  there  lies 


102  THE    FATHER 

Cyrus,  flat  on  his  back,  and  just  breathing  his  last.  The 
Captain  was  right  by,  and  when  I  screamed,  he  grabs  up 
Cyrus,  and  doesn't  he  think  I  meant,  Put  him  in  the  creek! 
And  the  harder  I  tore  after  him,  the  faster  he  ran " 

"Well,  what's  a  man  to  do?"  The  Captain  shuffled  mis- 
erably. "You  come  rarin'  after  me,  screechin'  blue  blazes, 
and  that  durn  fish  just  giviV  his  last  flop  on  earth.  So  I 
thinks  you  want  me  to  hurry.  And  I  hurried." 

It  was  all  clear  enough.  The  Captain's  one  thought  had 
been  to  rush  the  gasping  Cyrus  to  his  native  element,  not 
to  give  him  the  freedom  of  the  seas.  But  Cyrus  was 
charmed  by  this  venture  into  the  real  world.  He  swam  in 
full  view,  gayly  exploring  the  shallow  creek.  When  poor 
Aunty  called  him  fondly  and  stooped  to  grasp  him,  he 
flirted  an  impudent  fin  at  her,  and  flickered  away.  She 
knelt  on  the  miry  bank,  she  begged,  she  entreated.  Cyrus 
slid  away  under  a  giant  root,  and  meditated. 

"We  can  scoop  him  up  in  the  bucket,  Aunty.  Lemme 
try." 

Scooped  up  in  the  bucket  of  captivity?  Not  for  Cyrus. 
At  last  Mercy  suggested  a  butterfly  net. 

Butterfly  nets  not  being  included  in  their  camping  out- 
fit, father  ripped  a  hoop  off  their  cask  of  china,  and  Mercy 
sewed  her  sheerest  petticoat  thereon.  This  ruse  succeeded. 
Surprised  and  annoyed,  Cyrus  found  himself  outgeneraled. 
For  days  he  sulked,  to  Aunty's  distress.  But  soon  he  was 
his  old  supercilious  self. 

Again  the  weather  cleared.  Away  flew  squaw  winter. 
Back  came  Indian  summer,  softer,  milder,  lovelier  than 
before.  Day  followed  day,  so  luminous,  so  shining  blue, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  for  their  sakes  the  year  had  swung 
from  November  back  to  June. 

Late  on  the  third  sweet  tranquil  night,  Mercy  awoke. 

She  twitched  back  a  corner  of  canvas  and  peeped  out. 


THE    FATHER  103 

It  was  close  on  midnight.  Some  yards  from  the  wagon  lay 
the  campfire,  a  heap  of  glowing  coals.  In  his  hammock 
the  Captain  slept,  peacefully,  rhythmically.  But  Father 
was  not  asleep.  Rolled  in  his  blanket,  he  sat  on  a  log  near 
the  fire.  The  firelight  shone  rosy  silver  on  his  silver  head. 
He  sat  staring  into  the  coals. 

Mercy  groped  for  her  woolly  slippers.  She  pulled  down 
Joseph's  Coat  and  slid  it  on  over  her  frilled  and  fluted 
nighty.  Not  even  the  wagon-step  creaked  as  she  slipped 
down  into  the  dew-fleeced  grass. 

Father  glanced  up.  He  did  not  say  anything.  He  pulled 
her  down  on  his  knee,  tucked  her  feet  up  on  the  log 
beside  him,  and  wrapped  his  blanket  around  them  both. 
Mercy's  head  settled  into  the  round  of  his  broad  shoulder. 
Her  heavy  braids  bumped  over  his  arm,  ropes  of  bronze 
where  the  light  struck  them.  She  took  a  firm  grip  on 
Father's  free  hand,  and  tucked  it  tight  under  her  chin. 

A  tired  old  moon  was  creeping  down  the  west.  One  small 
star  tagged  after  it,  clutching  its  apron-strings  of  mist,  ex- 
actly as  little  Thomas  clutched  forever  at  Aunty's  apron- 
strings.  High  and  far  through  the  elms'  black  tracery  Cas- 
siopeia queened  it  on  her  jeweled  throne.  Late  November; 
yet  even  in  the  dim  moonlight  there  wavered  on  the  blue 
far  hills  a  faint  blue  mist — the  last  pale  smoke  of  Indian 
camp-fires.  No  chill  lay  on  that  still  fragrant  air.  And  all 
the  little  hunting  winds  blew  soft  as  spring. 

After  a  while  her  father  spoke. 

"  'Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim?'  " 

"No,  sir.  Thank  goodness,  they  went  to  sleep  early.  All 
three.  I  can't  think  what's  come  over  them.  They've  been 
too  good  to  be  true,  all  day." 

Father  chuckled.  Mercy's  eyes  lifted  again  to  the  vast 
illumined  pageant  of  the  sky. 

Crossing  the  zenith  went  a  mighty  processional.  Priests 


104  THE    FATHER 

in  flowing,  swirling  white,  acolytes  waving  pale  censers 
that  brimmed  with  dim  and  curling  smoke,  all  molten  gold, 
all  drifting  silver.  Then  in  a  breath  that  lofty  ceremonial 
vanished.  Now  all  the  clouds  were  huge  galleons,  plunging 
full-sail  across  that  dark,  tempestuous  blue.  Ship  on  ship 
swept  by,  swept  by.  All  the  old  splendid  cruel  names  rang 
in  her  ears.  Salamis,  Gravelines,  Trafalgar — you  read  about 
them  in  your  history.  But  there  they  were  just  names,  and 
bothersome  to  spell  at  that.  Now  they  stormed  on,  all  glori- 
ous before  your  eyes.  Up  the  Channel  came  the  Great 
Armada,  racing  on  the  heels  of  the  royal  flagship,  whose 
mainmast  pierced  the  stars.  A  sweep  of  canvas,  a  flare  of 
ghostly  cannon,  a  soundless,  blinding  whirl  of  spray  as 
the  last  ship  plunged  beneath  the  black  and  bitter  sea.  O 
wonderful,  O  pitiful!  All  the  mighty  galliasses  with  their 
laboring  chained  galley-slaves,  all  the  airy  pinnaces,  all  the 
glittering  banners,  the  crashing  brazen  ordnance.  .  .  . 
Then,  even  as  you  caught  your  quivering  breath,  the  wan- 
ing moon  shone  through.  And  all  the  white  sails  turned  to 
whiter  plumes,  to  trailing  misty  garments.  Up  the  long  hill 
of  the  sky  they  trod,  pale  princesses-royal,  every  one.  The 
wan  exquisite  procession  of  the  young  wives,  as  they  fol- 
lowed their  lord's  bier  to  the  burning-ghat.  On  and  on  they 
went,  trembling,  faltering,  fearless,  serene.  Proudly  they 
laid  their  doomed  loveliness  beside  their  prince,  their  prince 
in  life  and  in  death.  Still  upon  the  ivory  catafalque  they 
lay,  that  high  throne  of  sorrow,  already  lighted  by  the 
ghostly  brands  of  moonlight.  .  .  .  She  saw  them  all, 
so  clear!  They  were  robed  like  the  Ladies  of  the  Zenana, 
according  to  the  artless  imagination  of  the  editor  of  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,  and  they  wore  sheer  pantalettes,  and  wide 
crinolines,  and  flowing  undersleeves,  and  their  glorious 
tresses  were  combed  into  waterfalls  or  else  bound  in  netted 
chignons,  and  could  their  lord  and  king  have  but  beheld 


THE    FATHER  105 

them  he  would  undoubtedly  have  gasped  for  horror  and 
risen  straight  up  from  his  illustrious  bier. 

.  .  .  Then,  even  as  she  sighed  and  trembled  under  the 
terror  of  her  fantasy,  all  that  sad  beauty  vanished  as  beneath 
a  wand  of  magic.  All  that  far  majesty  turned  to  mighty 
walls,  upspringing  turrets.  High  arches  flung  themselves 
across  the  sky.  And  through  her  mind  wove  the  hushed 
enchanted  words: 

"The  cloud-caffed  towers,  the  gorgeous  falaces 
The  solemn  terrifies,  the  great  globe  itself n 


She  stopped.  As  if  she  had  spoken  aloud,  her  father's  voice 
took  up  her  thought 

<c  'And,  like  this  unsubstantial  fageant  faded ' 

"Mercy  Rose!   Hark!" 

Down  through  the  forest  came  a  rush  of  flying  hoofs. 
Through  the  screen  of  willows  burst  a  horseman,  a  tall 
boy,  clinging  weakly  to  his  frenzied  horse.  Wild-eyed, 
snorting,  the  horse  stopped  at  the  very  edge  of  the  camp-fire. 
The  boy  tumbled  off  and  stood  clinging  to  the  saddle.  One 
arm  hung  lax  and  useless.  Blood  streamed  from  his  fingers. 
His  face  was  a  mask  of  blood. 

"I  saw  your  camp-fire,"  he  gasped.  "I'm  driving  up 
from  Barclay's,  with  a  load  of  refugees  for  the  Under- 
ground. They're  after  me — the  slave-grabbers — can  you 
hide  me?" 

Then  he  pitched  down  in  a  limp  sprawl  at  Father's  feet. 


CHAPTER    NINE 

FATHER,  is  he  killed?" 
"Nonsense,  no.  But  he's  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood." 
Father  went  down  on  his  knees,  tore  back  the  boy's  sleeve, 
clamped  his  fingers  on  the  welling  cut.  "Artery.  I've  got 
to  put  on  a  tourniquet,  quick.  Tear  off  a  strip  of  Joseph's 
Coat.  Hurry." 

Mercy  jerked  and  pulled,  but  the  thick  quilted  stuff 
would  not  give  way. 

"Can't  you  tear  it?  Here,  take  my  jack-knife.  Don't  you 
see  the  fellow  is  bleeding  to  death?" 

The  knife  sawed  through  Aunt  Euphemia's  follow-me- 
lad,  slashed  out  a  thick  chunk  of  somber  plush:  Great-uncle 
Jonathan's  coffin  lining. 

"In  heaven's  name,  how  can  I  make  a  tourniquet  of  that! 
Find  something  thin,  that  will  sink  in.  Tear  a  piece  off  your 
night-gown.  Thin,  I  tell  you.  A  ribbon,  if  you've  got 
one " 

Mercy's  hands  went  to  her  throat.  She  snatched  off  the 
narrow  blue  ribbon,  and  thrust  it  into  Father's  hands.  The 
little  ring,  still  knotted  in  place,  went  too,  but  she  did  not 
even  look  at  it. 

Father  grunted. 

"That  will  have  to  do.  Here,  keep  your  fingers  on  that 
cut  while  I  tie  it." 

Stars,  trees,  campfire,  joined  in  a  mad  dance.  But  she 
pressed  the  torn  edges  together,  deftly,  skillfully.  Father 
rolled  the  plush  into  a  wad,  crammed  it  on,  tied  it  tight. 
Another  minute,  and  he  had  torn  the  lace-edged  hem  from 
her  night-dress,  and  bandaged  the  boy's  head  with  it.  His 


THE    FATHER  107 

fingers  flashed  over  the  limp  huddle   from  head  to  foot. 
"No  bones  broken.  Only  bullet  scratches.  Lucky  for  him. 
Aha,  here's  a  chest  wound.  Only  grazed,  though." 

He  lifted  the  lax  shoulders  and  laid  the  unconscious  head 
in  Mercy's  lap.  She  looked  down  dizzily  at  the  face  on 
her  knee.  Between  the  wide  bandage  and  the  drench  of 
blood,  she  could  see  very  little  of  that  face.  She  made  out 
black,  heavy  brows,  a  square  jaw,  an  insolent  mouth. 

"I'll  set  the  coffee-pot  on  the  fire.  As  soon  as  he  can 
swallow,  we  will  give  him  some.  That  will  steady  him  up. 
Listen.  Hear  that?" 

Again  that  muffled  drumbeat:  nearer,  nearer,  like  swift, 
ominous  thunder. 

"Get  into  the  wagon,  quick!  They  must  not  see  you. 
Pull  the  blankets  over  you.  Child,  you're  smeared!" 

"I  suppose  so."  Mercy  looked  down  at  her  blood-wet 
hands,  her  long  frilled  sleeves  all  splashed  and  dabbled,  the 
sodden  Joseph's  Coat. 

"Here,  help  me.  We've  got  to  hide  him.  Quick!" 
Father  snatched  up  the  long  slack  body  and  shoved  the 
boy  head-first  into  the  wagon  alongside  of  Aunt  Celestia's 
bed.  As  he  pushed  him  in,  his  head  struck  Zenobia's  cage. 
Zenobia  raised  a  shocked  fine-lady  squawk. 

"Confound  that  bird!  Let  her  once  get  started,  and  she'll 
rouse  the  whole  camp!" 

But  Zenobia  sank  into  affronted  silence.  Father  hoisted 
Mercy  and  thrust  her  into  the  wagon.  She  curled  up  tight  at 
the  back,  and  pulled  the  red  comforter  to  her  eyes.  Luckily 
the  two  older  boys  were  sleeping  outside  to-night.  Other- 
wise the  wagon  would  probably  have  burst. 

"Now  for  his  horse."  Father  snatched  off  saddle  and 
bridle,  threw  them  on  the  ground  and  gave  the  horse  a 
slap  that  started  it  trotting  down  the  trail  to  where  Button 
and  Betsy  were  tethered. 


108  THE    FATHER 

"Be  thankful  Aunty  isn't  sleeping  on  her  deaf  ear! 
Here  they  come!" 

He  seized  his  blankets,  rolled  them  around  him,  and 
squatted  down  by  the  fire.  The  pounding  thunder  galloped 
up  the  hill.  Three  horsemen  burst  into  the  clearing. 

"Hallo,  the  camp!" 

Mercy  peeped  through  a  crack. 

At  that  shout  Father  rolled  over  drowsily.  He  straight- 
ened up,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Hallo,  I  say!  Wake  up,  you!"  The  leader  sprang  from 
his  horse,  and  prodded  Father  with  the  butt  of  his  whip. 

"Hey,  stop  that!  What's  the  trouble?"  Father  scrambled 
up,  yawning  violently. 

"Trouble,  eh?  We're  a  posse  from  down-river.  Sumner 
County.  We're  hunting  a  young  whipper-snapper  who's  been 
running  slaves  up  north.  Drove  a  wagon  load  away  from 
the  Barclay  farm,  a  big  underground  station,  this  morning. 
Got  wind  we  was  after  him,  so  he  dumps  his  load  some- 
where in  the  swamps  between  here  and  Barclay's,  no  telling 
where,  and  lights  out  a'horseback.  We  ain't  found  no  track 
of  the  niggers.  No  use  tryin'  to  hunt  'em  through  those 
bogs.  But  we're  out  to  find  him.  And  get  him.  We'll  make 
an  example  of  him,  mind  that.  You  seen  him?" 

"I'd  say  not,"  lied  Father  cheerfully.  "Sure  he  came 
this  way?" 

"No.  We  ain't  sure  of  nothin'.  But  this  looks  kinder 
queer.  How  come  you  got  your  coffee-pot  on,  at  two  in 
the  morning?" 

"Woke  up  chilly,  and  wanted  something  to  warm  me 
up.  Have  some?"  Father  reached  for  the  big  pot.  "Say,  I 
must  have  dropped  off.  The  pot's  boiled  dry." 

"Sure  you  ain't  seen  hide  nor  hair  of  that  boy?" 

"Nair  hide,  nair  hair.  Search  the  camp  if  you  want  to." 

The  men  hesitated. 


THE    FATHER  109 

"We  ain't  got  a  minute  to  lose.  Once  he  gets  to  the  set- 
tlement that  Abolitionist  gang  will  hide  him  out.  Spoil  our 
last  chance  of  catchin'  him." 

"Oh,  haven't  you  a  warrant?" 

"Warrant?  What  do  we  want  with  a  warrant?  Hain't  he 
run  off  with  our  niggers?  Ain't  he  been  stealin'  niggers, 
fast  as  they  can  slip  across  the  Ohio?  Ain't  it  high  time 
us  citizens  took  care  of  our  proputty?" 

"Well,  sorry  I  can't  help.  Look  all  over,  if  you  got  time. 
Easy,  though,"  for  one  man  was  poking  his  head  into  the 
covered  wagon.  "That's  my  women-folks'  wagon.  My 
little  boy  sleeps  there,  too.  No  use  scarin'  them  stiff." 

Mercy  thought  she  had  covered  herself  up  from  top  to 
toe.  But  one  long  gleaming  braid  had  fallen  outside  the 
blanket,  in  plain  view.  Prodded  by  a  watchful  guardian 
angel,  little  Thomas  rolled  over  at  that  moment  and  stuck 
out  a  convincing  fat  leg. 

"Say,  boys,  let's  get  on.  No  use  giving  him  time  to  get 
clear.  Come  along!" 

With  a  trampling  rush  the  three  were  gone.  Father 
slumped  down  on  his  tick  again,  settled  apparently  into 
heavy  sleep.  Mercy  lay  motionless.  She  scarcely  dared  to 
breathe.  At  length,  her  father  rose  and  came  quietly  to  the 
wagon. 

"Still  awake,  daughter?" 

Awake!  As  if  she  could  go  to  sleep! 

"All  right.  I'll  slide  our  young  man  out,  and  plump  him 
down  on  the  tick  with  me.  I'll  let  him  snooze  an  hour  or 
so.  Then  if  he  can  stick  on  his  horse  I'd  best  get  him  off 
before  daybreak." 

The  boy  groaned  and  muttered  as  they  dragged  him 
down,  but  he  did  not  waken. 

"Now  roll  yourself  up  warm  with  Aunty,  and  go  to 
sleep,  too.  Pop  off,  quick." 


no  THE    FATHER 

Wholesome  advice.  For  a  time  she  lay  staring  into  the 
dark,  her  hands  like  ice,  her  heart  pounding.  But  the 
feather-bed  was  so  deep  and  cozy,  little  Thomas  had  cud- 
dled up  so  tight,  his  warm  arms  were  so  snuggly  around 
her  neck.  .  .  . 

"Well,  Mercy  Rose!  Hadn't  you  better  rouse  up,  before 

the  boys  gobble  the  last  bite  of  bacon?  You What  in 

the  nation  have  you  done  to  Joseph's  Coat?  W here's  Uncle's 
casket  lining?" 

Mercy  blinked  and  sputtered  in  full  daylight.  Father, 
shaven  and  smart  and  annoyingly  wide  awake,  stepped  in 
to  draw  the  fire. 

"Give  the  child  time  to  open  her  eyes,  Aunty.  .  .  . 
Why,  a  young  fellow  stopped  by  last  night  for  help.  He'd 
hurt  his  arm.  That  was  after  you'd  gone  to  bed.  I  wanted  a 
rag  for  a  bandage.  I  didn't  realize  you  prized  that  piece." 

"Prized  it — frized  it!  I'd  rather  lose  every  other  keep- 
sake I've  got!" 

"Well,  I'm  sorry.  Maybe  if  we  write  back  to  Lunenburg 
his  daughter-in-law  will  have  another  piece." 

"Likely!  Where's  that  young  fellow  gone?  Perhaps,  if 
we  follow  him  up> " 

"It  isn't  probable  we  can  catch  up  with  him.  By  the 
way,  do  you  realize  we're  only  eighty  miles  from  our  farm? 
I  just  figured  it  up.  On  my  map." 

Only  eighty  miles!  Even  Uncle's  lost  memento  was  for- 
gotten in  that  glad  news. 

"We  ought  to  make  it  in  six  days,  John.  Five,  maybe.  If 
ever  I  set  foot  on  solid  ground  again  I  hope  I  take  root  for- 
ever. Boys,  hark.  In  maybe  four  days,  we'll  be  home." 

Alas,  fond  hope!  Seth  being  Seth,  he  proceeded  to  knock 
this  dream  into  a  cocked  hat.  Next  morning  he  awoke  even 
earlier  than  usual,  whining  and  sniffling.  Always  so  sunny, 


THE    FATHER  in 

he   was   now   one   embodied   grump.    His   first   mouthful 
brought  a  wail  of  dismay. 

"Mumps."  Aunty  poked  the  poor  little  swollen  jaw  with 
an  experienced  finger.  "I'll  lay  to  it  he  gets  'em  on  both 
sides.  Then  passes  'em  on  to  the  other  two.  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  you  caught  'em  yourself,  Mercy.  And  you, 
John.   .  .  .  And  maybe  the  Captain." 

"Cassandra  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance."  Father  spoke 
under  his  breath.  "Never  mind,  Seth.  You  like  mush  and 
milk,  and  you  shall  have  plenty  of  that." 

They  pushed  on  all  that  day.  But  by  night,  the  other 
two  were  beginning  to  swell  up  like  two  unhappy  little 
puffballs.  Leave  it  to  Seth.  "Nobody  but  Seth  could  manage 
to  find  the  mumps  in  a  wilderness  like  this.  Almost  in  reach 
of  our  own  cabin,  at  that!"  said  Aunty  bitterly.  "We'll 
have  to  stop  at  the  very  next  tavern.  And  stay  there  until  all 
three  are  well  again." 

Only  seventy  miles  from  their  own  farm.  But  no  help 
for  it. 

The  last  tavern  had  been  filthy  beyond  words.  But  this 
tavern  was  worse  than  filthy.  It  was  sinister.  The  house 
had  no  mistress.  A  stout  surly  landlord  greeted  them  un- 
graciously, thrust  them  into  grimy  unkempt  rooms,  and  set 
wretched  food  before  them.  But  they  dared  not  leave.  The 
three  little  boys  must  be  kept  warm  and  quiet  at  any  cost. 

Aunty  was  too  exhausted  to  do  much  nursing.  Mercy  did 
the  most  of  it,  with  the  clumsy  willing  help  of  Twonnet, 
the  half-breed  girl  who  was  the  only  servant  on  the  place. 
Father  was  good  help,  too.  But  the  old  Captain  was  a  host 
in  himself.  He  kept  the  little  boys'  eyes  popping  with 
stories,  he  sang  and  sang  till  his  tongue  hung  out.  Neither 
songs  nor  stories  were  exactly  orthodox,  but  what  of  that? 
He   trudged  up  and   down   with   Thomas  and   his  nighty 


ii2  THE    FATHER 

balanced  on  a  trembly  old  arm  as  he  sang  to  the  tune  of 
Auld  Lang  Syne: 

"Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man} 
We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more. 
He  used  to  wear  an  old  gray  coat. 
All  buttoned  down  beeeeee-fore. 

"He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind. 
In  friendship  he  was  true. 
His  coat  had  focket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue B'Gosh! 

His  pantaloons  were  blue." 

"Better  not  let  Aunty  hear  you  sing  that,  Thomas." 
"Aunty  can't  spank   me   now.   I'm   too   sick.   And   she 
dassent  spank  the  Captain." 

When  five  days  had  gone  by  and  Mercy  was  so  des- 
perately tired  that  she  blundered  off  asleep  every  whipstitch, 
respite  came.  Up  to  the  tavern  rolled  a  huge  luxurious  car- 
riage, all  red  wheels  and  real  windows  and  leather  cushions 
and  folding  steps.  Out  stepped  a  gentleman  from  Virginia 
and  his  wife.  Four  slaves  attended  them,  three  sturdy  com- 
petent men,  and  one  stout  beaming  mammy,  her  turban 
starched  till,  as  Aunty  remarked  approvingly,  it  could  stand 
alone.  Within  the  hour  the  master  had  made  friends  with 
Father.  Another  hour,  and  the  lady,  a  very  great  lady,  so 
sweet,  so  still,  so  gentle,  in  her  flowing  puce  silks  and  her 
dim  flat-cut  old  emeralds,  had  slipped  in  softly  and  sent 
Mercy  to  bed  for  the  whole  afternoon,  put  Adoniram  and 
Seth  to  playing  checkers,  and  sat  cutting  out  paper  soldiers 
for  Thomas.  Never  marched  such  paper  soldiers  in  any  regi- 
ment since  wars  began.  For  the  drummer-boy  and  his  drum 
were  so  real,  you  could  hear  the  thump  of  booted  feet,  you 


THE    FATHER  113 

could  feel  the  throb  and  thrill  of  the  drumbeat.  And  the 
plumes  on  the  major's  shako  tossed  and  waved  in  the  breeze. 

Then  when  the  soldiers  were  all  marching,  striding,  rank 
on  rank  across  the  dingy  counterpane,  those  bewitched 
scissors,  with  the  gold  grapes  carved  on  the  handles,  set  to 
cutting  out  a  group  of  trappers,  glorious  men  from  the 
Far  North,  all  in  fur  parkas,  and  coonskin  caps;  the  caps 
so  lifelike  that  every  coon  flirted  his  bushy  tail  at  you  as 
they  went  by.  When  the  trappers  had  passed,  came  a  ship- 
load of  pirates,  tiny  swaggering  giants  in  jerkins  and  jack- 
boots, their  impudent  queues  tied  at  the  backs  of  their  un- 
sanctified  necks.  Even  a  pirate  ship,  murderous  plank  and 
treasure-chests  and  all,  came  sailing  down  the  wind  from 
those  enchanted  scissors. 

And  presently  Thomas  keeled  over,  dead  asleep  from 
weariness  and  joy  and  wonderment.  And  all  that  day,  and 
the  next,  the  lovely  lady  played  with  them,  so  gentle,  so 
sweet,  so  wise.  So  that  when  on  the  third  morning  she  and 
her  husband  must  drive  away,  Donny  and  Seth  looked  after 
them  wistfully  and  Thomas  gave  way  to  candid  sniffles. 

"I  will  say,"  thus  Aunty,  giving  Thomas  a  firm  but 
kindly  pat,  "I  must  say  that,  even  though  they  are  slave- 
holders, they  could  teach  a  few  professing  Christians  some 
things  they  need  to  know." 

"Slave-holders!"  Thomas  gasped.  "Why,  they  can't  be 
slave-holders,  Aunty.  Neither  one  of  'em  has  got  horns,  nor 
a  tail!" 

Donny  and  Seth  fell  upon  him  with  lavish  and  jeering 
correction.  Little  Thomas  sighed.  Even  at  five  it  is  difficult 
to  readjust  one's  standards  in  this  puzzling  world. 

As  they  drove  away,  unspeakable  dullness  settled  down 
upon  the  tavern.  But  not  for  long. 

Ever  since  their  coming,  Aunty  had  fidgeted  whenever 


ii4  THE    FATHER 

her  eye  fell  on  the  silent  furtive  Twonnet.  In  the  gray  of 
the  morning  she  had  once  heard  an  angry  voice  and  a  scared 
sobbing  answer.  Then  a  blow,  a  cry. 

"Let's  get  out  of  here,  John.  Quick's  we  can." 

"If  I  thought  that  brute  was  abusing  the  child " 

"Haven't  you  got  plenty  of  other  folks'  troubles  to  stew 
over,  without  hunting  up  some  more?" 

Father  flinched.  She  was  right.  Miserably  he  began  to 
count  up.  How  could  this  journey  have  cost  so  much?  How 
could  it  be  that  he  had  so  little,  so  frighteningly  little,  left 
from  the  sale  of  the  house,  the  barns?  By  the  time  he  had 
bought  just  the  barest  needs  for  the  new  farm,  seed  and 
tools  and  a  few  animals,  he'd  be  scraping  his  last  hundred 
dollars.  He  had  planned  to  send  Mercy  away  to  school  for 
the  winter  term  but  six  months  at  Knox  College  would 
cost  him  ninety  dollars.  An  impressive  sum.  He  could  have 
managed  it  if  only  Joel  had  not  needed  so  much.  If  he 
weren't  grimly  sure  that  Joel  would  need  still  more. 

Mercy  came  down  the  cobwebby  hall,  the  convalescent 
little  Thomas  clinging  to  her  skirts.  She  carried  a  tray  with 
the  boys'  suppers.  It  was  heavy  and  awkward  to  handle. 
She  heard  Twonnet's  voice  from  the  side  hall.  She  stopped 
and  called. 

"Twonnet!  Want  to  help  me  carry  up  this  supper?" 

No  reply. 

A  heavy  step.  A  door  closed,  slowly.  Then  a  man's  voice 
on  a  strange  hoarse  note,  a  note  that  told  fury;  and  some- 
thing worse  than  fury. 

"I'll  show  you  how  to  slink  off  and  dodge  me!  Hell-cat! 
Take  that " 

Then  a  thin  anguished  scream. 

The  hall  looked  queer  and  swimmy:  red,  too.  A  thick  red 
mist.  Mercy  set  down  the  tray  on  a  rickety  table.  Slowly. 
Carefully. 


THE    FATHER  115 

"Thomas,  go  straight  to  your  room.  Travel." 

Thomas  never  cheeped.  He  followed  like  a  fat  streak 
at  her  flying  heels. 

She  sped  into  the  side  hall,  grasped  the  doorknob.  The 
door  was  locked. 

"Open  this  door!" 

No  answer.  She  seized  it  and  shook  it  with  all  her  might. 
The  flimsy  lock  gave  way.  She  plunged  in. 

With  an  oath,  the  landlord  leaped  up,  whirled  to  face 
her. 

"You — beast!"  Mercy  sprang  on  him,  jammed  her 
clenched  fists  into  his  face.  The  astonished  man  stumbled 
back,  pitched  against  the  wall.  The  butt  of  the  raw-hide 
rolled  perilously  under  Mercy's  foot,  but  she  caught  herself 
instantly  and  struck  out  with  every  inch  of  force  in  her. 
The  man  grabbed  both  her  wrists;  huge  and  powerful  crea- 
ture that  he  was,  he  would  have  made  short  shrift  of  her, 
but  for  two  reasons.  One  was  Twonnet.  She  crawled  to  her 
feet,  threw  herself  on  him  from  behind,  dug  steely  fingers 
into  his  fat  throat.  The  other  was  little  Thomas.  Promptly 
he  went  Berserk.  Small,  but  mighty,  he  grabbed  the  land- 
lord's knee  and  sunk  his  milk  teeth,  sharp  as  spurs,  into  the 
gross  fat  leg. 

With  a  screech  of  pain  the  man  stumbled  back,  and 
pitched  down  flat.  As  he  struggled  for  footing  Mr.  Stafford 
bolted  in. 

"Mercy!  What  happened?  What  are  you  doing  to  my 
daughter?" 

The  landlord  shook  off  his  three  assailants.  He  stood 
purple,  gurgling. 

"Doin'  to  your  daughter My  Lord  A'mighty,  look 

what  she's  doin'  to  me!  Smashes  down  my  door  and  jumps 
in  and  lambastes  me.  And  me  doin'  nothin'  at  all " 

"Nothing  at  all?  Look  at  Twonnet!  Look  at  that  welt. 


n6  THE    FATHER 

You'd  knocked  her  down,  you  were  slashing  her  in  the 
face " 

"Yeth,  thir,  and  he  tried  to  thmack  Mercy,  too.  I  theen 
him." 

Father  scooped  up  his  belligerents  and  hustled  them  to 
his  own  room. 

"You  might  be  two  raftsmen.  While  you  were  at  it  why 
didn't  you  try  to  gouge  his  eyes  out?" 

"I  wish  I  had.  I  do.  I  do!"  Mercy  was  sobbing,  loud 
dry  sobs  of  fury.  A  white  line  broadened  around  her  mouth. 
Her  hands  shook,  her  face  blazed  crimson.  She  was  a  fury 
in  starched  pantalettes  and  a  bird's-nest  braid.  "The  wicked, 
cruel " 

"Stop  that.  You'll  have  hysterics.  I'll  warn  the  landlord 
that  if  he  dares  abuse  Twonnet  again " 

"What  good  will  that  do?  He's  got  her  here.  All  to  him- 
self. He'll  beat  her,  he'll  torture  her!  Oh,  Father,  let's  take 
her  with  us.  We've  got  to  get  her  away  from  him!  I  can't 
leave  her  here.  I  won't!" 

"Mercy  is  right,  Aunty.  No  use  talking.  We've  got  to 
take  the  girl  along." 

For  weeks  Aunty  had  held  herself  with  a  tight  rein.  She 
held  it  now. 

"Just  as  you  say,  John.  Only  I  sort  of  wonder Do 

you  know  anything  about  her?" 

"French  father,  Indian  mother,  she  says.  Bound  out  to 
this  man  and  his  wife  when  she  was  six.  That  is  all  she 
knows." 

"You  can  see  plain  enough  that's  all  she  knows.  Maybe 
we  can  teach  her  to  scrub  and  to  cook.  Doubt  it.  Once  an 
Indian,  always  an  Indian.  Well.  What  with  you  aidin'  and 
abettin*  a  fugitive  from  justice  that  night"  (now,  how  had 
Aunty  guessed  that?),  "and  Mercy  gettin'  into  fist  fights 
over  heathen  orphans,  we're  making  an  elegant  start  on  our 


THE    FATHER  117 

pioneering.  But  if  it  suits  you,  why,  I  can't  complain.  At 
least  I  wouldn't,  if  you  thought  there  was  any  chance  of 
ever  comin'  up  with  that  young  man  and  Uncle  Jonathan's 
casket  lining." 

As  soon  as  possible,  they  left  the  tavern.  Twonnet,  dazed, 
silent,  as  dumbly  grateful  as  an  animal  freed  from  a  trap, 
went  with  them.  Mr.  Stafford  carried  things  through  with 
a  high  hand,  although  he  had  expected  a  pitched  battle. 
But  astonishingly  the  landlord  made  scant  protest.  He  was 
subdued  to  the  point  of  meekness.  Only  a  few  weeks  ago 
the  countryside  had  rung  with  reports  of  a  case  where  three 
bound  children  had  been  brutally  tortured.  A  mob  had 
formed,  and  the  offender  had  been  tarred  and  feathered 
and  driven  out  of  the  county.  The  landlord  had  had  a  taste 
of  what  such  indignation  might  mean.  He  had  no  desire 
for  more. 


CHAPTER    TEN 

AGAIN  they  set  forth.  But  now  calamity  followed  on 
calamity.  The  very  day  they  started  the  wagon  broke 
down.  Father  and  the  Captain  did  some  emergency  patch- 
ing, so  that  they  could  reach  the  next  clearing,  and  there 
they  found  a  forge.  The  smith  and  his  helper  were  hurry- 
ing to  shoe  a  troop  of  horses,  brought  in  by  a  drover.  So 
they  shoved  the  Stafford  wagon  close  to  the  racks  where  this 
troop  was  hitched,  but  very  casually  hitched.  The  next  day, 
when  Father  walked  down  from  their  camp  to  drive  their 
wagon  back,  he  did  not  happen  to  look  at  their  beloved 
chairs,  lashed  to  the  back  of  the  wagon.  But  when  Aunty 
started  to  climb  in,  there  rose  a  wail. 

"John  Stafford!  Will  you  look  at  my  chairs!  Somebody's 
slashed  the  rush  seats  right  out  of  'em!" 

"That  landlord!  I  knew  he'd  be  up  to  something " 

"But,  Aunty,  they  aren't  cut,  they're  chewed!  Just  as  if 
a  giant  mouse  had  nibbled  them." 

Giant  mice  had  nibbled,  and  to  some  purpose.  The  drove 
of  waiting  horses  had  found  something  with  which  to  fill 
their  time.  Not  a  seat  was  left  whole. 

The  family  gazed  on  that  ruin,  aghast. 

"We  ought  to  make  that  drover  pay  for  them." 

"But  he'd  say  it  was  the  blacksmith's  fault.  For  he  shoved 
the  wagon  too  close  to  the  hitching  racks." 

"While  we're  about  it,  let's  see  if  they've  chewed  any- 
thing else." 

"Probably  they've  gnawed  up  Joseph's  Coat,  what's  left 
of  it."  Aunty's  voice  dripped  gloom. 

Joseph's   Coat  proved   intact,   save    for   the    sad   vacant 


THE    FATHER  119 

pentagon  which  Aunty  had  never  ceased  to  mourn.  But  the 
chairs  were  misfortune  enough.  To  weave  rush  seats  de- 
mands real  skill.  Small  chance  that  anyone  in  their  new 
home  could  replace  them.  And  at  best,  the  expense  would  be 
past  reach. 

"We'll  knock  up  some  benches  out  of  the  goods  boxes 
when  we  get  there.  They'll  do  well  enough.  Hey,  there, 
where's  all  that  dunnage  of  yourn?"  The  Captain  pried 
under  the  wagon,  where  had  hung  the  precious  little  trees 
in  orderly  array.  Alas,  all  had  vanished:  seedlings,  roots, 
bulbs,  yarbs,  everything. 

"No,  the  horses  ain't  et  'em  up,"  the  Captain  shook  his 
head.  "They've  slipped  their  moorings,  somewheres  on  the 
road." 

The  family,  too  horrified  to  speak,  stood  by,  while  he 
inspected  the  slack  cords  and  ropes. 

"Another  storm  coming  up,  so's  we  dassent  go  back  to 
look  for  'em.  Oh,  well!  No  telling  what'll  go  wrong  by 
to-morrow."  He  hacked  an  extra  large  chunk  from  his  plug, 
and  clambered  to  his  high  seat.  As  an  optimist,  thought 
Father,  Cap'n  could  give  points  to  Bildad  the  Shuhite. 

To-morrow  came  inexorably.  It  brought  a  stormy  crim- 
son dawn,  a  raw  wind  barbed  with  sleet.  Then  the  rains 
descended  and  the  floods  came. 

They  were  miles  from  any  tavern,  from  any  grove,  from 
any  adequate  camping  place.  Mr.  Stafford  proudly  consid- 
ered himself  an  able  pioneer,  at  least  in  theory.  He  had  heard 
all  about  building  an  open-face  camp,  he  knew  precisely 
where  to  dig  the  trenches  around  it.  But  how,  how  could  you 
set  about  building  a  log  camp  with  not  a  tree  in  sight?  Far 
on  the  open  prairie,  at  that,  with  a  young  cloudburst  beating 
on  your  wagon  roof.  And  how  to  camp  at  all,  while  water 
sluiced  through  your  canvas  roof  and  rose  to  the  hubs? 

"Goody,  goody!  We're  sailors  in  a  gale,  and  the  ship's 


120  THE    FATHER 

going  down  right  under  our  feet,"  chanted  Seth,  wild  with 
delight. 

"I  only  hope  we  don't  sink  with  all  hands  aboard. 
Captain,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"Bundle  up  and  kiver  up.  And  let  her  rain." 

Nothing  else  for  it.  But  this  proved  a  dreary  ordeal.  Even 
the  little  boys'  enthusiasm  was  dampened  by  sundown.  No 
chance  at  a  hot  meal.  They  sat  in  a  soggy  huddle  and  ate 
whatever  was  in  reach. 

Morning  brought  leaden  skies,  but  the  rain  held  off;  so 
they  started  early,  and  drove  on  splashing,  hour  on  dreary 
hour.  They  plodded  through  miles  on  miles  of  trackless 
prairie,  guided  only  by  the  occasional  stakes  that  helped 
Father  to  check  up  on  his  map. 

Steadily  the  prairie  grew  wider,  wider.  Now  they  were 
so  many  castaways,  adrift  on  this  endless  ocean  of  dark 
and  sodden  land,  under  this  gray  and  sodden  sky. 

Zenobia  scolded  without  ceasing.  The  tired  horses 
struggled  through  miry  roads,  which  were  no  more  than 
trails,  across  sloughs  where  only  the  logs  thrown  down  into  a 
semblance  of  corduroy  road  saved  them  from  sinking  into 
bottomless  mire.  Even  the  little  boys  grew  subdued.  Even 
Mercy  drew  a  little  closer  to  her  father,  her  eyes  darkened 
with  a  nameless  fear. 

The  utter  weariness  of  this  dark  endless  world,  the 
menace  of  that  dun  unchanging  sky!  She  could  not  know 
the  real  prairie:  she  could  not  foresee  that  when  spring 
awoke  the  prairie  would  waken  into  glorious  life.  Only 
a  few  months,  and  that  dull  miry  stretch  would  be  an  ocean 
of  emerald  grass,  waist-high,  shoulder-high,  horse-high,  a 
green-gold  murmuring  sea,  starred  with  a  thousand  flowers, 
rippling  beneath  the  sweet  winds  like  a  great  web  of  watered 
silk,  now  forest-green,  now  pale  lake-silver,  now  blinding 
dazzling  gold.  But  to-day,  all  that  her  eyes  could  see  was 


THE    FATHER  121 

the  gray  desolation,  the  raw  and  bitter  cold,  a  cold  that 
chilled  your  body,  chilled  your  soul. 

Just  before  dusk,  the  trail  skirted  a  great  marsh.  Father, 
who  had  been  sitting  silent,  put  the  reins  into  Mercy's  hands 
and  pulled  out  his  map. 

"We're  within  two  miles  of  our  land.  Hallo,  Captain! 
Turn  to  the  left,  then  down  that  long  slope.  We  ought  to 
reach  our  new  home  in  half  an  hour."  But  there  was  no 
exultation  in  his  voice. 

The  ragged  trail  was  hardly  more  than  a  rut  in  the  sea 
of  mud.  Not  twenty  yards  beyond  spread  the  marsh.  It 
reached  on  and  on,  an  endless  sweep,  to  the  dark  horizon. 

"I  don't  understand  this.  There's  no  marsh  indicated  on 
this  map.  You  and  the  Captain  wait  a  bit."  Father  gave 
Mercy  the  reins,  took  his  riding-horse,  and  galloped  away. 
It  seemed  hours  before  he  came  galloping  back. 

He  pointed  with  his  whip  towards  the  foot  of  the  slope. 

"Our  land  begins  right  yonder." 

"Our  land!  It  can't  be!  Why,  our  land  isn't  a  swamp, 
it's  a  farm ! " 

"Yes,  it  is  ours.  It  is  marked  by  a  split  post,  with  a  chain 
caught  through  the  top,  just  as  Deacon  said.  There  is  a  house 
too.  If  you  want  to  call  it  that." 

Mercy  began  to  tremble.  His  low  voice  held  a  note  that 
terrified. 

"According  to  the  Deacon  this  deed  calls  for  cleared  land 
ready  for  planting.  I — I  didn't  dream  that  they'd  sell  me  a 
swamp.  And  a  clump  of  woods  with  not  even  the  brush 
cut  out." 

They  plodded  on.  Mercy  made  out  a  small  log  cabin.  It 
stood  close  to  the  hummock  where  the  woods  began.  In  all 
that  empty  world  that  cabin  was  the  one  sign  of  life. 

"But  where's  our  house,  John?" 

"Right  yonder." 


122  THE    FATHER 

"Right  yonder?"  Seth  shrilled  in  angry  surprise.  "But 
that's  not  our  house,  that's  our  cowshed." 

Father  laughed  out.  A  queer  rasping  laugh. 

"Then  we'll  have  to  live  in  the  cowshed,  son.  Move 
along,  Button." 

They  turned  into  the  clearing.  Close  behind  came  the 
Captain  driving  the  big  covered  wagon.  The  Captain  had 
never  whined  all  the  long  hard  way.  But  now  he  was  so 
tired  that  his  old  wits  were  muddled,  his  eyes  could  hardly 
see.  He  missed  the  narrow  corduroy  road,  which  led  from 
highway  to  cabin:  the  wheels  plowed  into  the  rim  of  the 
marsh  and  sank  to  the  hubs.  The  team  struggled  to  reach 
the  road,  but  the  mire  was  too  deep.  They  floundered, 
stumbled;  the  wagon  canted  to  the  left,  righted  itself,  sank 
again  to  a  hopeless  angle.  The  Captain  managed  to  keep 
his  balance,  but  all  his  shouting  and  urging  could  not  move 
that  wagon  one  inch.  The  horses  stood  with  heads  hung  low. 
Their  miry  coats  steamed  in  the  cold  wind.  They  did  not 
even  look  around.  They  paid  no  attention  to  whip  or  com- 
mand. They  were  through. 

"Here,  I'll  help."  Donny  ran  to  their  heads  and  coaxed. 
Thomas  and  Seth  pushed  nobly  from  behind.  So  did  Mercy. 
Twonnet,  too.  Father,  queerly,  paid  no  attention.  He  stood 
staring  around  the  drowned  fields,  the  desolate  empty  high- 
way. This,  then,  was  the  land  for  which  he  had  spent  every 
dollar  that  he  dared  hold  back  from  Joel's  need.  This  was 
the  land  that  was  to  carry  him  through  the  years  of  toil 
that  lay  before  him. 

"We  can't  budge  her.  Looky,  yonder  comes  a  man  on 
horseback.  Holler  to  him.  Maybe  he'll  lend  a  hand." 

The  man  on  horseback  splashed  and  floundered  up  the 
road.  He  was  an  amazing  figure.  He  was  tall,  incredibly 
tall,  a  very  Titan  against  that  dark  and  lowering  sky.  His 
clothes  were  past  belief.   A  huge   gray  shawl  hung  cat- 


THE    FATHER  123 

a-corner  over  his  enormous  shoulders,  and  flapped  above  an 
ancient  jim-swinger  frock  coat,  green  with  age,  and  dis- 
reputably crumpled.  From  that  frock-coat,  your  eye  trav- 
eled downward  to  trousers  which  in  some  earlier  day  might 
have  been  of  adequate  length.  But  nowadays  they  had  been 
drenched  and  shrunken  till  they  hunched  shin-high  above 
white  yarn  socks  and  gigantic  soft-sided  shoes.  He  sat  hump- 
shouldered  on  his  big  plodding  bay.  Until  he  dismounted, 
you  could  not  dream  how  tall  he  was.  And  when  he  did 
dismount,  he  seemed  to  let  go  and  lengthen  out  like  a 
leisurely  foot-rule;  yards  and  yards  of  him  stretched  up  and 
up  till  his  tall  bulging  beaver  hat  must  scrape  the  sky. 

"What  makes  him  so  terrible  big?"  Thomas,  cold  and 
hungry  and  scared,  clutched  Mercy's  hand. 

"Aw,  hush  up,  Thomas.  This  is  Out  West.  They  grow 
bigger  here."  Thus  Adoniram,  with  his  invariable  weary 
superiority. 

The  man  bowed  to  Father  and  lifted  his  hat  to  Aunty. 
You  saw  that  his  face  was  a  gaunt  mask  of  fatigue.  But 
under  the  coarse  black  hair,  all  rumpled  and  tangled  over  his 
great  gaunt  bony  head,  his  hooded  eyes  were  tired  and  kind. 
And  his  voice  boomed  friendliness,  a  slow  deep  organ  note. 

"Evening,  folks.  Let  me  take  a  hand  here.  We  all  get 
stalled  right  by  this  marsh,  every  day  in  the  week.  Used  to 
it.  Digging  each  other  out  of  the  mud  is  right  in  the  day's 
work." 

He  threw  off  his  bulky  shawl  and  the  jim-swinger  coat. 
He  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  His  bare  arms  were  masses  of 
corded  muscle.  Under  the  bronzed  skin,  those  muscles 
rippled  like  knotted  heavy  silk. 

"You  take  the  horses'  heads,  while  I  lift  from  behind." 

Father  protested  in  amazement. 

"You  lift?   Why,  that  wagon  is  loaded  to  the  roof.  It 


124  THE    FATHER 

weighs   a   ton.    Don't   try    that,   sir.    We'll    unpack   right 
here " 

"When  I  say  Go,  you  h'ist.  H'ist  like  the  nation." 

"But,  sir " 

"Go!" 

The  team  strained  frantically.  There  was  a  sucking 
sound:  the  wagon  wavered,  tipped,  then  plunged  out  of  the 
mire.  It  stood,  rocking  but  safe,  on  the  log  road. 

Even  Father,  always  so  tranquil,  so  urbane,  stood  gasp- 
ing at  that  mighty  strength. 

"I  would  not  have  believed  it!  Sir,  you  have  my  grateful 
thanks.  I  cannot  understand  that  you  have  done  this,  one 
man,  alone " 

"I  did  not  do  it  alone.  You  hefted  your  share."  The 
stranger's  wide  mouth  broke  into  a  smile.  He  brushed  the 
mud  from  his  knees,  his  shoulders.  "You  are  Mr.  Stafford, 
from  Green  River,  Massachusetts?  We  had  heard  that  you 
were  driving  this  way,  so  I've  ridden  this  road  every  day, 
on  my  way  home  from  Circuit  Court.  Thought  I'd  like  the 
chance  to  meet  you,  sir.  Permit  me  to  welcome  you  to  the 
Sangamon  country.  And  let  me  hope  that  your  settlement 
here  will  mean  happiness  and  prosperity.  This  is  your 
family?" 

He  put  out  a  colossal  hand.  He  seized  Thomas  by  the 
collar  of  his  roundabout. 

Thomas  squeaked.  Down  his  fat  back  sped  the  tingling, 
terrifying  thrill  of  a  large  ice-cold  two-cent  piece. 

"My  family,  sir.  And  whom  may  we  thank  for  this 
neighborly  kindness?" 

"I  am  a  backwoods  lawyer."  The  gaunt  stranger 
scratched  his  rumpled  black  head  with  that  huge  hand;  in 
the  waning  light  he  looked  like  a  tall  sober  gentle  scare- 
crow. "My  name  is  Abraham  Lincoln." 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

"QETH!  Will  you  stop  nibbling  that  parched  corn!" 
**-*  Mercy  menaced  him  with  the  pancake  lifter.  "Break- 
fast will  be  ready  in  two  jiffs.  Listen!  If  you  don't  stop, 
you'll  sprout!" 

"Where  will  I  sprout?"  inquired  Seth  with  interest. 

"Outen  your  eyes.  And  your  ears.  And  I'll  hev  to  plow 
you  and  harrow  you  and  weed  you  night  and  day,  if  I  figger 
on  any  crop."  The  Captain  pulled  a  pink  ear. 

"Something  smells  elegant,"  chirped  'Doniram.  "Hey, 
folks,  guess!" 

"Sassengers,"  piped  up  the  Captain  from  his  big  rocker 
close  to  the  fire.  "And  they  ain't  nobody  going  to  keep  tab 
on  me  neither!"  His  clean  wrinkled  old  face,  scrubbed  as 
industriously  as  Seth's  own,  was  shiny  with  soap  and  happi- 
ness. His  shriveled  old  hands  lay  folded  on  his  knees, 
tranquil  with  content.  To  Father  this  new  home  might  mean 
crushing  disappointment:  to  the  Captain  it  was  foretaste  of 
Paradise.  Wasn't  he  accorded  the  warmest  corner,  the 
thickest  buffalo  robe,  by  common  consent?  Wasn't  he  busy 
from  morning  till  night,  watering  the  horses,  bringing  in 
kindling,  planning  for  long  hours  on  end  just  where  he'd 
make  garden  and  set  out  cabbages  the  minute  that  spring 
came?  Wasn't  he  eagerly  consulted  twenty  times  a  day 
on  every  problem  that  beset  the  little  boys?  Didn't  Father 
ask  his  advice?  Follow  it  too?  Well,  then!  What  more 
could  a  man  want? 

Mr.  Stafford  looked  at  him.  Through  his  fog  of  anxiety 
and  disappointment  he  felt  a  vague  comfort.  It  was  some- 


126  THE    FATHER 

thing,  to  awaken  such  utter  content  on  the  face  of  a  tired 
forgotten  old  man. 

"Twonnet!  do  look  what  you're  doing!  Oh,  you're 
dribbling  gravy  all  over  my  clean  table-cloth!  For  pity's 
sake There,  don't  set  that  hot  skillet  down  on  the  high- 
boy! You'll  burn  the  whole  top  off!  I  can  hear  it  sizz!" 

Aunty  was  frantic.  Twonnet  was  always  making  her 
frantic.  And  yet  she  meant  so  well!  But  when  she  didn't 
break  she  spilled,  and  when  she  didn't  spill  she  scorched,  and 
when  she  didn't  scorch  she — but  she  always  did  scorch. 
Everything  she  could  lay  her  hands  on.  Always  and  forever. 
The  cabin  was  blue  from  morning  till  night  with  the  smoke 
of  blackened  toast,  the  smell  of  leathery  fried  eggs,  of  burnt 
overshoes  and  frizzling  undershirts.  She  was  not  merely 
awkward,  she  was  Calamity  let  loose. 

"Maybe  she'll  learn.  Some  time."  Aunty  spoke  with 
desperate  patience.  "I'll  say  for  you,  Mercy  Rose,  you're  a 
sovereign  good  manager.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  mumps 
and  the  Apostle  we'd  have  been  settled  long  ago."  She  roused 
herself  to  rare  praise.  "When  you  think  of  the  hooraws'  nest 
this  place  was  three  days  ago!  And  look  at  it  now!" 

Father  looked.  In  three  days  the  four  log  walls  and  a 
roof,  the  icy  caves  of  rooms,  the  dark  narrow  hall  that  ran 
through  the  cabin,  had  grown  warm  and  bright  and  cozy. 
The  forlorn  shelter  had  become  a  home. 

"The  child  would  make  a  home  in  the  desert."  He  put 
out  his  hand  to  her  as  she  flashed  by,  set  down  the  big  platter 
of  cakes  and  the  crackling  sausages,  swept  Donny's  spelling 
book  out  of  his  hands,  tucked  in  Seth's  napkin,  and  planted 
Thomas  in  his  chair  with  a  shake  and  a  kiss,  all  in  the 
same  breath.  The  little  boys  turned  to  her  as  flowers  to 
the  sun.  Twonnet,  dark,  sullen,  watched  her  with  eyes  that 
worshiped  dreamily — and  being  Twonnet  she  splashed  a 
yellow  pool  of  pancake  batter  on  the  spotless  floor. 


THE    FATHER  127 

"Company's  coming.  I  see  'em.  In  Aunty's  tea-cup." 
Seth  leaned  to  scrutinize  the  fragment  of  leaf. 

"Company's  here  right  now."  Donny  ran  to  the  window. 
"Looky,  it's  that  big  jackknife  man  that  hauled  us  out  of 
the  mud  the  night  we  came!" 

"And  dropped  his  two-cent  piece  down  my  back!" 
Thomas  leaped  up  in  lively  hope  of  favors  to  come. 

"Ask  him  to  breakfast,  Father.  Hurry,  dear!  Oh!  He 
looks  like  an  enormous  black  rooster  sitting  on  a  stick  nest! 
Lookt" 

The  gaunt  roan  plodded  up  the  muddy  lane.  Mr.  Lincoln 
swung  leisurely  off.  Tied  to  his  saddle  behind  was  a  bundle 
of  slim  black  switches. 

With  his  high  stovepipe  hat,  his  bony  beaked  face,  his 
flapping  coattails,  he  was  a  masculine  witch  of  Salem  strad- 
dling the  withes  for  a  broomstick.  He  stumbled  in,  stiff 
from  the  long  cold  daybreak  ride,  put  down  his  witch- 
broom,  picked  up  'Doniram,  Seth  and  Thomas  in  one  fell 
swoop  and  squeezed  them  jointly  and  severally. 

"Lend  me  a  spade,  will  you?"  to  Father.  "Struck  me,  the 
night  you  folks  came,  that  this  place  needs  a  few  fruit 
trees.  Nothing  on  the  place  but  some  gnurly  apples.  Yes,  it's 
a  last  chance,  but  even  late  planting  is  better  than  none. 
Thought  we'd  stick  these  peach  seedlings  in  near  the  well. 
What  d'you  say?" 

For  a  minute  Mr.  Stafford  could  only  stare  at  the  little 
trees.  The  thief  who  had  carried  off  their  baby  orchard  had 
stolen  more  than  slips  and  cuttings.  He  had  stolen  the  very 
essence  of  home.  These  little  new  trees  were  so  many 
friendly  outstretched  hands. 

"Of  all  the  neighborly !  Sir,  I  hardly  know  how  to 

thank  you.  We'll  plant  them  at  once.  But  first  you  will 
breakfast  with  us?" 

Mr.  Lincoln  considered  that  table.  The  platter  of  smok- 


128  THE    FATHER 

ing  sausages,  the  stout  hospitable  coffeepot,  the  pile  of 
tender  cakes. 

The  old  Captain  added  his  welcome. 

"Set  down,  stranger.  You're  welcome.  Nobody  in  this 
house  never  keeps  tab  on  you,  neither." 

"Reckon  I  will,  thank  you.  I'm  riding  circuit,  and  I 
started  from  the  tavern  before  five  o'clock.  Due  at  the 
Courthouse  by  nine.  Breakfast  wasn't  ready  yet.  However, 
that  wasn't  any  great  loss.  You  know.  There's  taverns.  And 
taverns.  Thank  you  kindly,   ma'am." 

He  sat  down,  section  by  section.  He  squared  himself, 
as  a  man  who  approaches  an  agreeable  but  important  task; 
cakes,  sausages  melted  before  him.  The  little  boys  sat  spell- 
bound. From  time  to  time  the  Captain  nodded,  encourag- 
ingly. Twonnet  at  the  griddle  gazed  and  gazed  and  slopped 
more  batter. 

At  last  he  stood  up  and  bowed  to  Aunty  and  Mercy. 

"Now  for  the  spade." 

"What  kind  of  trees  will  they  be  when  they  grow 
up?" 

"That  depends  on  yourselves,  boys.  No  telling.  Maybe 
peach-pie  trees.  Maybe  switchin'  trees.  You  got  to  settle  that. 
We  might  plant  'em  by  the  barn,  or  else  over  on  the  Indian 
mounds." 

"Indian  mounds " 

"Why,  yes.  See?  Those  three,  right  yonder.  This  farm 
raises  a  mighty  big  crop  of  arrowheads,  every  year." 

Arrowheads!  Indian  mounds!  Buried  treasure! 

The  three  little  boys  dashed  out  as  if  moved  by  a  single 
spring.  They  fell  upon  the  nearest  mound  like  three 
frenzied  chipmunks.  Mr.  Lincoln  laughed  and  followed. 
But  once  outside  he  turned  to  Father  alone. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  intrusive,  sir.  But  may  I  ask  how 
you  happened  to  choose  this  location?" 


THE    FATHER  129 

In  his  bitter  humiliation  at  the  fraud  that  had  been 
played  upon  him,  Father  did  not  want  to  confide  in  any 
human  being.  But  something  in  this  serious,  gentle  giant 
not  only  invited  confidence,  it  drew  it  bodily  out  of  you. 
In  ten  sentences  Father  had  told  him  the  whole  story. 

Mr.  Lincoln  reflected. 

"You  bought  from  Timothy  Lyman,  sight  unseen.  Well, 
I'm  nobody  but  a  backwoods  lawyer.  I  can't  hold  out  much 
hope  that  you'll  get  your  rights  now  that  the  sale  is  closed. 
But  I  can  pull  some  of  the  packing  out  of  this  case  for  you. 
Timothy  Lyman  himself  bought  this  land  sight  unseen. 
Bought  it  from  a  slick-tongued  land-agent  who  sold  him 
this  worthless  strip  of  marsh  and  hookin'  quarter,  and 
ground  every  cent  of  the  top  price  out  of  him  at  that.  The 
minute  Timothy  laid  eyes  on  it  he  looked  around  to  unload, 
you  see.  And  here  you  were,  asking  his  own  brother  for 
advice  on  location.  So  between  'em  they  sawed  it  off  on  you. 
Now  the  miserable  truth  is,  you'll  never  make  a  living  for 
that  splendid  young  family,  on  this  worthless  soil " 

"I  don't  figure  on  that."  Father  launched  into  his  great 
plan.  Mr.  Lincoln  listened.  But  his  steady  face  took  on  a 
slow  cold  disapproval. 

"An  Abolitionist  newspaper Well.  Far's  I'm  con- 
cerned I'm  afraid  you've  come  to  the  goat's  house  for 
wool.  I  hope  I'll  live  to  see  slavery  abolished.  But  by 
ballots,  not  bullets.  By  mutual  agreement,  never  by  the 
sword." 

"How  many  centuries  will  it  take,"  Mr.  Stafford  flared 
up  promptly,  "to  educate  people  up  to  that  point?" 

"As  soon  as  men  come  to  realize  that  the  slavery  issue 
spells  danger  every  hour  to  the  unity  of  this  nation " 

"Meanwhile  this  monstrous  situation  will  go  on  and  on, 
in  injustice,  in  cruel  suffering." 

"I  see  your  point  of  view."   Mr.   Lincoln   halted.   He 


130  THE    FATHER 

stared  down  the  stretch  of  dark  November  fields.  "But 
you've  got  to  look  at  it  with  a  cold  mind.  We've  got  to 
hold  our  union  together,  a  union  inseparable.  But  we 
can't  settle   the   whole  slavery  problem   in   one   morning. 

Perhaps "  He  spoke  rather  shyly.  "D'you  care  to  ride 

into  town  with  me?  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet  some 
friends  of  mine.  And  talk  over  your  plans." 

Father  agreed  eagerly.  When  he  started  home  six  hours 
later,  all  his  black  depression  had  vanished  as  the  morning 
dew.  He  was  boyishly  happy.  Mr.  Lincoln,  awkward,  diffi- 
dent, gentle,  had  taken  him  about  to  meet  all  the  substantial 
citizens  of  Bakerstown,  and  these  men  had  treated  him  like 
visiting  royalty.  It  meant  something,  this  was  evident,  to  be 
introduced  by  this  big  clumsy  backwoods  lawyer.  Generous 
welcome,  hearty  encouragement,  ready  Western  friend- 
liness, all  were  lavished  upon  him.  With  such  allies  as  these, 
how  could  he  fail?  How  could  he  grow  despondent,  even? 

He  turned  into  the  crossroads  and  galloped  Button  down 
to  the  Corners'  Postofhce,  hardly  two  miles  from  his  home. 
By  to-day,  there  would  surely  be  mail  for  him. 

There  was  mail.  A  handful  of  letters.  He  looked  through 
them  with  shaking  eagerness.  But  nothing  from  Joel.  How- 
ever, on  the  next  stage  from  Chicago,  there  would  surely 
be  some  news  from  him. 

But  while  there  was  no  word  from  Joel,  there  was  a  let- 
ter from  Horace  Mann.  A  glowing  enthusiastic  letter. 

"I  am  thankful  to  tell  you  that  we  are  actually  getting 
under  way.  Nothing  marvelous  yet.  But  we  are  glad  of 
every  new  pupil.  Of  course  we  need  money.  Only  a  few 
of  our  young  folks  can  pay  the  cost  of  tuition,  which  is 
twelve  dollars  a  year.  To  say  nothing  of  their  living  ex- 
penses. For  those  who  are  well-to-do,  I  have  fixed  the 
price   of  board   and   room   at  two   dollars  a   week.   That 


THE    FATHER  131 

sounds  exorbitant,  but  you  would  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
it  barely  covers  the  cost  of  food  and  fuel.  My  faculty  feels 
that  each  member  should  have  thirty  dollars  a  month,  so 
generous  friends  in  Boston  are  paying  the  salaries.  We  have 
eight  instructors,  so  that  is  a  terrible  expense;  but  so  far 
it  has  been  Providentially  met.  My  great  dream  is  to  see 
the  day  when  every  student  will  be  able  to  work  his  way 
through  college  and  be  prepared  to  meet  the  world,  twice 
armed  by  a  training  both  of  brain  and  of  hands.  If  only 
we  workers  were  given  a  few  more  years,  Stafford!  But 
sheer  need  will  raise  up  a  man  to  fill  my  place.  My  dream, 
even  as  your  own  dream  of  freedom,  will  be  made  real. 
Even  if  we,  ourselves,  do  not  live  to  see  the  day. 

"I  want  you  to  send  me  your  daughter,  for  a  term,  at 
least.  Mrs.  Mann  will  keep  a  motherly  eye  on  her.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  she  will  be  as  welcome  as  the  day,  and  you 
shall  be  at  no  expense  for  her,  none  whatever.  Thanks  to 
our  generous  friends,  we  have  a  hundred  and  fourteen 
dollars  in  our  treasury,  which  gives  us  an  abundance  to  go 
on. 

"With  deep  respect,  and  with  every  good  wish  for  the 
welfare  of  your  own  splendid  plans, 

Your  Friend, 

Horace  Mann." 

"If  only  I  could  send  the  child!  But  till  I  hear  from 
Joel  I  dare  not  spend  a  cent  beyond  our  bare  living.  Per- 
haps if  I  hadn't  brought  the  Captain  along — but  he  surely 
earned  his  salt  on  the  journey.  And  he  tries  so  hard  to  help! 
Then  Twonnet — but  I'd  not  sleep  if  we'd  left  her  behind. 

And  how  I  could  manage  without  Mercy  right  now 

No,  I  couldn't  spare  her,  not  even  if  I  had  the  money  at 
hand.  Maybe,  by  spring " 


132  THE    FATHER 

He  turned  Button  towards  home.  But  the  postmaster 
shouted  after  him. 

"Hey,  you  got  a  Mercy  Rose  Stafford  at  your  house? 
Here's  a  letter  for  her,  too.  'Most  forgot  it." 

He  took  the  letter.  It  was  a  pale  and  tender  blue.  It 
was  addressed  in  a  large  round  youthful  hand,  adorned  with 
plenty  of  deep-shaded  spraggles  and  swoops.  It  was  sealed 
by  a  pair  of  highly  colored  embossed  doves.  He  need  not 
read  the  return  address.  "Return  to  Lemuel  G.  Crowther, 
Green  River,  Mass." 

Just  what  he  might  have  expected.  A  surge  of  fright- 
ened jealousy  went  over  him,  an  icy  wave. 

Oh,  well.  This  was  what  you  got  for  being  a  father. 
You  loved  your  children  so  terribly,  you  gave  up  everything 
for  them,  you  spent  yourself  body  and  soul  year  after  year. 
Then,  just  as  they've  grown  to  be  some  real  comfort, 
along  comes  a  wistful  knock-kneed  lump,  all  oiled  and 
curled  like  a  young  Assyrian  bull,  and  falls  over  his  large 
feet  and  gasps  out  his  imbecile  worship.  Does  your  child 
laugh  at  him  and  send  him  away?  She  does  not.  She  listens. 
Not  only  listens,  but  smiles  on  him,  gives  him  permission  to 
write  to  her,  to  pour  out  his  mushy  soul.  .   .  . 

Mercy  was  sitting  at  the  east  window.  Three  young 
archaeologists  swarmed  over  her,  their  faces  grimy  with 
mud,  their  hands  full  of  arrowheads  and  bits  of  queer 
gray  pottery.  Armed  with  the  flreshovel  and  a  couple  of 
trowels,  they  had  plunged  into  excavation  the  minute  they 
had  come  back  from  school.  They  fell  on  their  father  with 
exultant  whoops. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  I  see.  Don't  all  climb  my  back  at 
once.  Mercy,  my  child" — he  hesitated — that  wave  of  funny 
pitiful  jealousy  swept  him  again.  "Here's  a  letter." 

Mercy  reached    for   it   eagerly.    Cruel   eagerness!    Her 


THE    FATHER  133 

grave  eyes  lighted.  Her  petal  cheek  colored  like  an  anem- 
one in  the  wind. 

As  she  read,  that  soft  rose  deepened  to  scarlet.  She  thrust 
the  letter  into  her  belt,  she  leaned  against  the  window,  and 
stared  down  the  road.  Past  the  row  of  Indian  mounds,  past 
the  marsh,  away  to  the  east,  far,  far. 

John  Stafford  watched  her  with  impatient  eyes.  Looking 
back  eastward,  was  she?  Looking  back  towards  the  hills  of 
her  old  home,  the  elm-shaded  lanes  where  she  had  walked 
with  that  young  oaf,  the  garden  path  where  he  had  bowed 
his  chucklehead  before  her!  Yes,  this  was  what  you  got,  for 
being  a  father.  Once  in  a  lifetime  they  gave  you  an  hour 
or  so  of  happiness.  And  you,  you  poor  fool,  you  went  on 
hoping  for  more  and  more.  But  just  let  them  grow  up,  and 
see  how  quickly  they  can  forget  you,  throw  you  away! 

Mercy  was  looking  eastward,  indeed.  Looking  back  and 
seeing  all  too  clearly  the  face  of  Lemuel.  But  the  crimson 
in  her  cheeks  was  not  the  crimson  signal  of  her  love. 
Rather  was  it  the  guilty  flush  of  shame.  For  consider:  here 
she  sat,  an  engaged  woman;  a  settled  woman,  as  Aunty 
would  sedately  say.  Yet  how  shockingly  had  she  betrayed 
her  promises!  Not  exactly  promises  in  word,  but  in  spirit! 
True,  it  was  not  her  fault  that  Father,  in  his  desperate 
haste,  had  snatched  away  her  ribbon,  ring  and  all.  But 
within  her  there  must  be  a  deplorable  element  of  light- 
mindedness.  Fickleness,  even.  For  now  she  saw  Lemuel  as 
he  really  was.  Stout,  solemn,  his  blue  eyes  slightly  popped 
with  emotion,  his  pumpkin  hair  arranged  in  its  imperish- 
able spit-curls.  But  to-day  no  knightly  panoply  enfolded 
him.  No  longer  did  a  golden  helmet  crown  those  ringlets. 
Upon  his  image  there  shone  no  glamor,  although  her  mem- 
ory still  caught  the  gleam  of  Aunty's  gilt  birdcage  paint. 
And  crowding  upon  that  vision,  thrusting  it  back,  there 


134  THE    FATHER 

came  a  keener,  clearer  vision.  Not  really  a  vision:  rather 
a  glint,  a  flying  shadow.  The  blood-masked  face  of  a  boy  in 
shabby  riding-clothes.  The  clutch  of  cold  groping  fingers. 
The  weight  of  a  dark  head  against  her  knee. 

She  jerked  herself  away.  Dutifully,  resolutely,  she  re- 
read Lemuel's  letter.  From  his  desk,  her  father  looked 
across  at  her  with  anxious  eyes. 

"Miss  Mercy  Rose  Stafford — 
Bakerstown  P.O. 
Sangamon  County, 
Illinois. 

Esteemed  Friend: 

"Dear  Dearest  Mercy :  I  have  been  verry  lonesome  since 
you  and  your  respected  Family  set  off  for  the  Far  West.  I 
wish  I  was  going  out  west.  Pa  says  maybe  we  will  all  go 
west  in  the  spring.  In  which  case  we  will  proberly  locate 
near  you.  I  wish  you  would  tell  your  folks  we  are  going  to 
be  married  and  let  me  tell  my  folks  here  for  they  are  all 
saying  you  fooled  with  me  and  then  gave  me  the  Mitten 
and  I  want  to  make  them  set  up  and  take  notice.  Also  when 
they  know  I  am  Engaged,  those  girls  up  to  the  Academy 
will  let  me  alone  for  as  it  is  they  run  me  up  a  tree. 

"I  wish  to  be  remembered  respectfully  to  your  father 
and  Aunty.  If  we  go  west  I  hope  my  pa  will  buy  land  that 
joins  your  pa's  for  it  is  always  a  good  thing  for  to  join  up 
lands  if  you  are  planning  to  get  married  to  anybody. 

"We  have  had  3  big  snows  and  I  got  to  take  my  bob- 
sled to  the  forge  and  have  the  runners  sharpened.  I  wish  I 
could  take  you  sledding  up  Kimball  Hill.  I  am  going  sled- 
ding to-night  with  a  crowd  of  fellows  but  I  would  swop 
them  all  for  one  girl. 

"Guess  who. 

"I  found  this  poem  in  The  Lady's  Book  of  Flowers  and 


THE    FATHER  135 

Poetry.  It  is  by  N.  P.  Willis.  It  has  a  beautiful  sentiment. 
It  reminds  me  of  you  and  me. 

With  Sincere  regard,  I  am 

Your  Engaged  Husband, 

Lemuel  G.  Crowther." 

"Any  news  from  home,  Mercy?"  Thus  Aunty,  rousing 
from  her  dose.  Aunty  dozed  a  good  deal  these  days.  Her 
frail  old  body  had  a  warped  look.  Her  lips  were  gray. 

"N-no.  Nothing  much.  Only  Lemuel  says  maybe  their 
whole  family  will  come  west  in  the  spring." 

"Oh.  They  will."  Father  went  on  with  his  writing.  But 
the  quill  bent  and  spattered  and  finally  splintered  in  his 
hard  grip.  Angry  pulses  hammered  in  his  throat.  Well,  let 
him  come.  Much  good  would  it  do  him!  By  March  at  the 
latest,  Joel  would  surely  pay  back  some  of  that  money.  The 
minute  it  reached  his  hands  he  would  send  as  large  a  por- 
tion as  he  dared  to  Horace  Mann.  With  it  he  would  send 
Mercy.  And  at  Antioch,  under  Mrs.  Mann's  eyes,  she  would 
stay,  till  the  fond  Lemuel  was  firmly  married  to  some  other 
girl. 

"That'll  be  soon  enough,  if  I'm  any  judge.  The  great 
softy!" 

Heaven  be  praised  for  the  cloistered  security  of  Antioch! 

Next  morning,  a  sharp  freeze  made  the  roads  a  shade 
less  impossible.  Father  hitched  up  and  took  Aunty  and 
Mercy  to  Bakerstown,  to  see  his  new  press.  Inwardly  he 
desired  to  crow  over  Aunty,  for  the  little  press  had  proved 
to  be  anything  but  a  mess  of  rust.  It  was  primitive  enough, 
but  in  good  trim,  and  there  were  abundant  supplies  in  the 
tight  little  shack  which  was  office,  composing  room,  every- 
thing in  one.  The  little  boys  yearned  loudly  to  go,  but 
Father  put  his  foot  down. 

"We'll  be  away  only  a  few  hours.  Trot  along  to  school. 


i36  THE    FATHER 

And   when  you  come  home,   mind  you  obey  Twonnet." 

"I  only  hope  she  doesn't  scorch  anything  while  we're 
away." 

Aunty  sniffed. 

"She's  scorched  everything  already,  but  the  roof.  And 
the  little  boys." 

In  twenty-four  hours,  by  some  mysterious  wireless  teleg- 
raphy, the  word  of  their  coming  had  flown  through  the 
whole  township,  and  had  prepared  for  them  a  generous 
welcome.  They  started  home  in  high  spirits.  Even  Aunty 
glowed.  For  hadn't  she  been  urged  to  join  the  church  sewing 
society  and  the  neighborhood  prayer  meeting,  and  bidden  to 
three  house-raising  dinners  in  the  next  week? 

They  drove  into  their  home  lane  and  stopped  at  the  barn. 
Trouble,  their  new  puppy,  ran  ahead  and  sniffed  at  the 
closed  door.  Then  with  a  yelp  that  was  all  but  a  shriek,  he 
turned  and  hurled  himself  back  towards  the  house.  Tail 
at  half-mast,  yelping  like  a  banshee,  he  leaped  and  scratched 
and  whined  to  get  in. 

"What  ails  Trouble ?  Here !  Whoa!  Hang  on 

tight,  Aunty.  What  on  earth " 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

BUTTON  and  Betsy,  always  so  docile,  were  rearing 
and  plunging.  Father  gripped  the  reins,  leaned  far 
over  the  dash-board,  dragged  and  tugged  with  all  his 
might. 

The  carryall  lurched,  tilted.  The  horses  bucked  and 
backed  and  struggled. 

"Hang  tight,  Aunty!  Hold  on,  Mercy!  Whoa,  I  tell  you! 
Whoa!" 

"It's  the  barn,  Father!  They're  just  like  Trouble,  they're 
frightened  to  death  of  the  barn " 

"Of  all  the   demented Whoa,   stop  it!    Whoa,   I 

say !" 

He  drove  the  frantic  creatures  across  the  field  a  hundred 
yards  away  from  the  barn.  Out  of  scent  of  the  building 
they  gave  way  trembling.  Sweat  poured  off  their  thick 
winter  coats.  They  backed  and  flinched  and  quivered,  they 
rolled  terrified  eyes  towards  the  barn. 

"Some  wild  animal But  where  are  the  children! 

What  on  earth  has  become  of  Twonnet ?" 

He  tied  the  horses  securely  to  the  fence.  He  ran  back. 
But  when  he  was  halfway  back,  the  barn  door  opened.  Out 
boiled  a  geyser  of  boys.  His  own  three  came  first.  Then  a 
deluge  of  small  boys,  middle-sized  boys,  tall  gangling 
boys. 

"Oh,  Father,  oh,  Father!"  Adoniram  got  there  first. 
Adoniram's  face  was  almost  purple,  his  freckles  fairly 
stood  out  in  relief.  "Oh,  oh,  we  were  all  coming  home  from 
school  and  right  on  the  turnpike,  we  met  them And 


138  THE    FATHER 

oh,  we  got  a  circus!  A  real  live  circus,  and  a  real  live  roar- 
ing lion !  Right  here,  in  our  own  barn ! " 

"What  under  the  firmament " 

"Yes,  sirree.  And  all  the  fellows  was  coming  out  of 

school,  and  they  all  swarmed  around  the  circus "  Seth 

took  up  the  tale.  "And  they  acted  awful  rude  and  mean, 
and  made  fun  of  the  poor  man  in  the  gold  wagon,  and 
throwed  sticks  at  him,  and  we  told  them  to  quit!  And  they 
wouldn't  quit.  They  followed  us  clear  up  the  road.  The 
man  is  sick,  so  sick,  he  couldn't  climb  out  of  his  wagon,  he's 
got  the  reins  hung  on  a  hook,  'cause  he  can't  drive,  even. 
We  told  him  he  could  come  stay  to-night  in  our  barn.  But 
he  couldn't  answer  us  back  he  just  talks  so  funny,  we  can't 
tell  one  word  he  says.  And  the  other  fellows  kept  right  on 
behind,  and  they  tagged  us  right  into  our  barn,  they 
wouldn't  go  away.  And  they've  kept  on  a-plaguin'  the  poor 
man,  and  a-pestering  him " 

"Clear  out,  boys."  Mr.  Stafford  pushed  his  way  through 
the  pop-eyed  mob. 

"Monkeyth!"  Thomas  was  all  but  incoherent.  "Mon- 
keyth,    and    a    spotty    dog    that    does    trickth!     Oh,    oh, 

Father !  And  a  red  wagon,  all  over  gold  ladies  without 

any  clothes  on,  and  two  ponies,  all  spots,  too.  Oh,  Father! 
Can't  we  keep  'em  always?  We  can  fix  up  a  circus  right  in 
our  barn,  and  charge  ten  cents  and  make  hundreds  and 
millions  of  dollars Oh,  Father,  we  got  to!" 

Father  waded  through  them  into  the  barn.  From  a  dark 
corner,  four  small  half -frozen  monkeys  shrieked  and  gib- 
bered. Beside  them,  crouched  in  his  tarnished  cage,  shiv- 
ered a  sad  moth-eaten  old  lion.  But  Father  went  straight 
to  the  scandalous  gold  wagon. 

"Clear  out,  boys.  You're  in  the  way.  Get  along,  I  tell 
you.  And  be  quick  about  it." 


THE    FATHER  139 

The  mob  from  District  School  Number  Two  stood  aside, 
grudgingly. 

"He  ain't  nobody  but  a  furriner,"  drawled  one  tall 
somber-eyed  boy.  "Can't  so  much  as  tell  his  name." 

He  prodded  the  wan  little  shape,  sprawled  on  the  tat- 
tered blanket,  with  a  large  grimy  hand.  It  was  not  a  cruel 
prod.  It  was  merely  experimental.  Briefly,  would  a  furriner 
squirm  if  you  punched  him? 

But  Editor  Stafford,  finicky  creature  that  he  was,  flared 
up  like  a  rocket.  The  heavy  buggy-whip  was  still  gripped 
in  his  hand.  He  wheeled  in  a  flash  and  brought  the  whip 
curling  across  the  boy's  shoulders. 

"Get  along  with  you!  Keep  your  hands  off,  you  young 
fool.  Clear  out,  every  last  one  of  you.  March!" 

The  barn  cleared  as  if  by  magic.  But  the  older  boys 
went  scowling  and  muttering.  Things  had  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  if  you  couldn't  so  much  as  punch  a  furriner,  nor  throw 
sticks  at  him,  even! 

Father  bent  again  over  the  dark  little  wraith  in  the 
wagon.  The  man's  twisted  brown  hands  were  thin  as  the 
monkey's  claws.  His  black  eyes  were  bright  with  fever. 
Weakly  he  pulled  himself  up  and  began  to  sputter  in 
Italian.  Father  took  good  grip  on  his  own  scanty  under- 
standing thereof. 

Two  minutes  later,  he  hurried  back  to  the  house.  He 
paid  no  heed  to  the  storm  of  questions  that  greeted  him.  He 
heated  a  pitcher  of  milk,  rolled  up  a  couple  of  blankets,  and 
set  the  soapstones  to  warm.  Then  he  addressed  his  dis- 
traught family. 

"Keep  out  of  that  barn.  Every  one  of  you.  Thomas 
Stafford,  this  means  you.  Not  one  of  you  go  near  it  unless 
I  give  you  leave.  No,  Aunty,  I  don't  need  you.  First  I've 
got  to  get  some  food  into  this  starved  little  chap,  and  thaw 
him  out " 


HO  THE    FATHER 

"For  pity's  sake,  John  Stafford,  and  you  don't  even  know 
his  name " 

"Well,  what  of  it?  His  first  name  is  Giovanni.  That's 
all  I've  tried  to  get  out  of  him.  He's  too  beat  to  say  any 
more " 

"Yes,  sir,  Aunty,  and  Father  made  the  boys  get  out,  and 
get  out  quick.  He  even  took  his  whip  to  'em.  Even  that  big 
bully  of  a  Jim  Wallis.  Just  give  him  one  switch,  and  did 
he  hop  it?  He  was  a-pokin'  the  poor  circus  man,  and 
a-proddin'  him,  an'  a-tormentin'  him " 

"Jo  Vanny."  Aunty  reflected.  "That's  a  regular  New 
England  name,  John.  I  knew  a  wood-chopper  once,  down 
Ipswich  way,  a  Portugoose  he  was,  that  sounded  like 
that " 

"And  next  thing,  I'm  going  straight  back  to  Bakerstown, 
and  bring  the  doctor.  We'll  find  out  what  ails  him." 

"Smallpox,  most  like.  And  we'll  every  one  of  us  get  it." 

"No  telling.  Here,  somebody  hurry  up  those  soapstones!" 

At  that,  Twonnet  emerged  from  her  hiding-place  behind 
the  big  pineapple  bed.  When  the  crowd  had  swarmed  into 
the  yard,  Twonnet  had  decided  to  take  no  chances. 

Willingly  she  crowded  in  fuel.  The  soapstones  didn't 
scorch  but  they  did  crack.  But  in  the  excitement,  nobody 
noticed  that. 

Everybody  waited,  agog,  till  Father  came  galloping 
back.  Behind  him  rode  the  doctor,  in  his  high  mud-spattered 
gig.  Both  men  tied  their  horses  to  the  front  rail,  some  dis- 
tance from  the  barn.  But  the  barn  door  stood  open,  and 
the  doctor's  mare  caught  a  good  jungle  whiff.  She  danced 
and  flounced  and  curveted.  Finally  she  managed  to  jerk 
the  reins  loose,  tangle  herself  in  them,  and  break  a  shaft. 
Disgustedly  the  doctor  hauled  her  to  her  feet,  where  she 
stood  trembling,  actually  faint  with  panic. 

"Before  you  get  through  with  this  performance,  you'll 


THE    FATHER  141 

have  to  get  rid  of  this  wild-beast  odor.  And  before  you 
can  do  that,  you'll  have  to  burn  down  your  barn." 

"We'll  put  Twonnet  at  that  chore.  Now  what  ails  this 
poor  little  wretch?  Smallpox?" 

"Smallpox?  Starvation,  you  mean.  And  a  bad  knee — 
poor  little  chap,  he's  crippled  up  for  months  to  come.  His 
animals  are  in  bad  shape,  too.  Looks  like  you'll  have  the 
whole  outfit  on  your  hands.  It  ought  not  take  more  than 
ten  pounds  of  fresh  meat  a  day  to  put  that  lion  into  top- 
notch  trim." 

"Fresh  meat  isn't  easy  to  come  by  out  here,  now  that 
fall  butchering  is  over  with.  But  I  might  utilize  the  little 
boys." 

Father's  voice  was  somewhat  grim.  You  couldn't  turn 
away  this  poor  little  crumpled,  famished  foreigner.  "But  I 
don't  see  myself  taking  the  food  out  of  my  own  children's 
mouths  to  keep  life  in  a  weak-kneed  old  lion." 

Floods  of  tears  greeted  his  decision. 

"Stop  howling,  Thomas.  Listen  to  me.  This  poor  man 
says  he  knows  he  cannot  feed  the  lion  any  longer.  He 
realizes  too  that  the  lion  will  not  live  through  the  bitter 
cold.  He  himself  is  too  sick  and  weak  to  go  away.  Worse,  he 
has  no  place  to  go.  So  he  says,  Do  as  you  think  best.  So  we 
will  manage  to  keep  the  ponies  for  him,  through  the  winter. 
And,  if  we  can,  the  monkeys.  But  the  lion  will  have  to  be 
— sent  away." 

"Oh,  but,  Father!  I'll  let  him  sleep  in  my  loft,  I'll  give 
him  all  my  breakfast " 

"And  I'll  let  him  have  my  blanket " 


"That  will  do,  boys.  You  must  leave  this  to  me.  Re- 
member, the  ponies  will  stay  a  while.  Possibly  the  man 
will  let  you  ride  them." 

Pallid  hope  lightened  that  black  despair. 

"I  suppose  I've  got  to  take  the  lion  out  while  the  boys 


H2  THE    FATHER 

are  at  school  and  shoot  him,"  Father  told  Mercy.  "When  I 
was  a  young  fellow,  I  used  to  dream  of  the  day  when  I'd 
be  rich  enough  to  build  a  ship  and  sail  away  to  Africa  and 
go  lion-hunting.  But  I  never  dreamed  that  I'd  reach  the 
point  where  I'd  go  lion-hunting  in  my  own  back  yard  and 
shoot  a  poor  guileless  old  beast  right  down  in  his  own 
cage." 

But  right  there,  up  rose  Aunty. 

"One  thing  certain,  John.  While  these  creatures  stay  here 
with  us,  they've  got  to  be  made  comfortable.  You  build  a 
good  fire  in  the  lean-to,  and  we'll  make  up  a  warm  bed 
for  Jo  Vanny.  Then  I'll  tend  to  the  animals.  The  monkeys 
are  all  sneezing,  and  the  lion  looks  as  if  he'd  have  chills 
and  fever  by  supper  time.  Mercy,  make  some  sage  tea,  and 
stew  up  some  onions  and  molasses.  Twonnet,  fix  me  a  ket- 
tle of  boiling  water,  if  you  can  boil  it  without  burning  it. 
Seth,  you  run  up  attic  and  find  my  old  red  check  shawl. 
Yes,  and  the  sack  of  linseed,  too." 

Everybody  obeyed  on  the  jump.  At  what  ensued,  nobody 
cracked  a  smile.  But  years  after,  Mercy  would  waken 
and  lie  shaking  in  her  bed  at  the  thought  of  Aunty's  patient 
ministries. 

First  Jo  Vanny  himself,  despite  the  pitiful  pleading  in  his 
eyes,  was  plastered  with  scalding  linseed  poultices,  rolled  in 
hot  blankets,  and  filled  to  the  Plimsoll  mark  with  boiling 
yarb  tea. 

Then  Aunty  laid  firm  hands  upon  the  spotty  dog  and 
his  torn  paw.  She  bathed  it  carefully  and  tied  on  a  wad  of 
clean  rags. 

The  spotty  dog  was  fat  and  scant  of  breath,  with  a  broad, 
plaintive  face,  even  more  freckly  than  Adoniram's.  He 
limped  and  wheezed  about  like  a  gouty  old  gentleman,  he 
held  his  wrapped  foot  tenderly  aloft  and  yapped  testy 
alarm   if  anybody  dared  pat  him,   even.   Next  came   the 


THE    FATHER  143 

monkeys'  turn.  Every  one  of  the  four  had  a  cold  in  his 
mournful  head.  First  she  fed  each  a  great  saucerful  of 
stewed  onion  and  molasses.  They  eyed  this  unholy  brew 
with  dubious  eyes,  but  they  gulped  it  down  without  demur. 
Then  Aunty  tore  the  red  check  shawl  into  squares  and 
bundled  up  each  wizened  head  with  a  tidy  knot  atop.  They 
looked  like  so  many  sad  little  black  mammies  with  the 
toothache.  When  she  came  to  the  smallest  monkey,  who 
was  wheezing  dismally,  she  wound  the  last  pieces  of  shawl 
over  his  poor  little  panting  chest,  and  fastened  them  with 
a  large  brass  pin. 

"Well,  that  chore's  chored!  Now  what?" 

"Now  for  the  lion."  Little  Thomas  pranced  with  rap- 
turous dread. 

Aunty  scrutinized  the  lion.  He  had  reached  the  yawny 
stage  of  his  chill.  Even  as  she  gazed,  his  mighty  jaws 
parted:  she  looked  down  into  an  incredible  gulf.  Aunty 
knew  not  the  face  of  fear,  but  at  that  fathomless  abyss  she 
flinched  a  shade. 

"What  he  needs  is  onions  and  molasses,  about  a  gallon 
and  a  half,  I'd  say,  spooned  down  him  so  quick,  he  wouldn't 
have  time  to  fuss.  And  a  linseed  poultice,  same's  Jo  Vanny 
himself.  But  I  don't  aim  to  be  et  up  by  any  circus  lion, 
especially  at  my  time  of  life.  No,  you  needn't  flourish  that 
dipper  at  me,  Seth,  for  I  won't  try  to  dose  him  and  you 
shan't.  We'll  hang  this  old  carpet  over  his  cage,  to  keep 
out  the  draft.  Then  that  old  Rising  Sun  bedquilt  has  con- 
siderable warmth  left.  Step  and  fetch  it,  Thomas.  You 
help  me  with  the  step-ladder,  'Doniram." 

Calmly  she  ascended  the  ladder;  calmly  she  opened  the 
trap-door  in  the  top  of  the  cage.  Calmly  she  lowered  the 
Rising  Sun  quilt  until  it  fell  on  the  lion's  hunched  shoul- 
ders. Miraculously,  he  did  not  snatch  it  away.  Perhaps  he 
was  too  chilled  to  move.  At  any  rate,  he  did  not  even  stir. 


144  THE    FATHER 

He  crouched  there  like  a  tired  old  man,  the  Rising  Sun 
quilt  draped  like  a  green  and  red  and  orange  robe  of 
coronation  over  his  ponderous  old  back. 

"Now  if  your  father  makes  up  his  mind  to  shoot  him — 
well.  At  least  he  will  have  had  a  few  hours  of  comfort, 
first." 

But  late  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Lincoln  stopped  in. 

"Understand  the  Ark  grounded  in  your  barn,  lately." 

"The  Ark,"  agreed  Father,  "and  most  of  the  animals. 
Especially  a  white  elephant  of  a  lion.  Take  a  look." 

Mr.  Lincoln  stalked  out  to  the  barn.  At  sight  of  the 
casualties,  he  sat  down  hastily  on  the  wheelbarrow,  and 
rocked  back  and  forth.  Finally  he  regained  his  composure. 
He  then  felt  in  his  trousers  pockets.  Not  finding  that  which 
he  sought,  he  dug  down  till  he  reached  his  gold  belt.  He  slid 
a  heavy  gleaming  coin  into  Father's  hand. 

"You've  got  a  land-office  job  on  your  hands,"  he  an- 
swered Father's  protest.  "No  almshouse  in  this  county, 
either.  The  least  that  your  neighbors  can  do  is  to  give  you 
a  boost.  Now,  about  this  ferocious  collection,  of  course  you 
can't  keep  it.  For  one  thing,  you'll  have  to  build  a  new 
barn.  You  can  see  for  yourself,  horses  and  jungle  beasts 
don't  mix.  Perhaps  you  can  keep  the  monkeys  in  that  shed 
down  by  the  marsh.  But  it's  a  pity  to  throw  away  an  able- 
bodied  lion." 

"But  what  can  I  do  with  him?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Tied  up  below  Beardstown  is  a 
little  flat-boat  that  gives  shows  up  and  down  the  river 
summers,  and  floats  down  to  New  Orleans  for  the  winters. 
They  carry  a  trick  parrot  and  a  wildcat  and  so  on.  They 
start  down-river  this  week,  the  owner  told  me.  Why  not 
pile  your  assortment  into  the  Ark,  drive  down  to  Beards- 
town,  and  strike  a  bargain  with  the  owner?" 

No   sooner  said   than   done.   Absurdly   chicken-hearted, 


THE    FATHER  145 

Father  waited  till  the  boys  had  gone  to  school.  Then  he 
and  Mr.  Lincoln  drove  away,  shocking  gilt  wagon,  piebald 
ponies,  monkeys,  lion,  and  all.  Be  it  admitted  that  he 
squirmed  a  bit.  For  John  Stafford,  son  of  the  Green  River 
StafFords,  to  appear  driving  a  circus  van  on  the  week  of  his 
arrival  in  a  new  country! 

However,  he  was  spared  all  embarrassment,  for  they 
met  only  three  teams,  and  at  the  first  faint  whiff,  these 
three  promptly  stampeded  into  the  prairie.  Further,  by  the 
time  that  the  two  reached  home  they  were  deep  in  an  argu- 
ment that  threatened  to  shatter  this  new  friendship  to  bits. 

"But  I  repeat,  sir,  it  is  no  matter,  which  side  began  this 
wrangle.  North  or  South,  what  difference " 

"W-well.  Better  to  wait  till  the  whole  nation  is 
aroused " 

"Wait,  eh?  Wait  for  what?" 

"But  you  don't  see  eye  for  me,  Mr.  Stafford.  The 
sooner  a  bad  law  is  repealed,  the  better.  But  until  it  is 
repealed " 

"Isn't  there  a  higher  law?  The  law  of  humanity " 


"Father!  Look  at  you,  driving  right  into  the  buttery 
door!  Oh,  and  Mr.  Lincoln  came  home  with  you!  Please 
come  right  in  and  have  supper  with  us — please!  Aunty 
baked  a  'lection  cake,  a  big  one,  and  we've  got  roast  pota- 
toes and  squirrel  stew  with  lots  of  gravy,  and  cold  wild 
goose  and  broiled  partridges  besides.  Your  place  is  all  set 
for  you,  Mr.  Lincoln.  Oh,  please!" 

"Yes,  and  how  did  your  bargain  come  out?  Tell  us,  right 
straight."  Thus  Aunty. 

Mr.  Lincoln  grinned  at  Father.  Father  grinned  back. 

"Let  me  tell  it,  Stafford?" 

"Go  ahead." 

"Well.  We  told  that  flatboater,"  he  spoke  with  a  face  of 
putty  innocence,  "that  the  lion  was  the  finest  bargain  he'd 


146  THE    FATHER 

find  in  a  year  to  come.  Pointed  out  that  he'd  earn  his  board 
and  keep,  twenty  times  over.  He  was  easily  persuaded  until 
along  came  his  wife.  She's  one  of  those  imperial  women. 
Yes,  I'd  say  imperial  is  just  the  word.  She  sailed  into  the 
subject  and  into  us,  heart  and  soul.  She  told  him  how  witless 
he  was  to  let  us  coax  him  into  boarding  the  lion  all  winter, 
and  she  mentioned  several  other  bargains  he  had  made  that 
didn't  turn  out  so  well,  and  finally  she  said,  'If  that  lion 
comes  aboard,  that's  where  I  leave.'  But  that  flatboatman — 
well,  there's  something  superhuman  about  him.  Did  he 
knuckle  down  to  her?  Not  he.  He  let  her  talk  on  and  on. 
Then,  right  before  her  eyes,  he  up  and  pulled  out  his 
wallet  and  paid  Mr.  Stafford  for  his  kindness  in  bringing 
the  lion  down  to  Beardstown.  Then  he  added  six  dollars 
more,  for  lion-rent  through  the  winter." 

Slavery,  abolition,  receded  into  the  middle  distance.  As 
Father  drove  the  red-and-gold  wagon  out  of  the  buttery 
and  into  the  barn,  he  reflected  with  a  mild  chuckle  that  for 
him  to  make  a  spectacle  of  himself  as  he  had  done  to-day, 
would  hardly  win  for  him  the  serious  attention  of  his  asso- 
ciates. But  the  circus  van  was  not  merely  a  circus  van  with 
unabashed  gilt  ladies  on  it.  It  was  to  prove  a  car  of  destiny. 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

ANIGHT  or  so  later,  Mercy  sat  writing  in  her  diary, 
full  speed  ahead.  Seth  and  Thomas  were  properly 
asleep  in  their  own  loft,  but  Adoniram  had  been  seized 
with  a  lonesome  streak. 

"  'N'  I  feel  awful.  'N'  I  want  sleep  right  'longside  of 
you." 

Consequently  Mercy  had  hauled  out  the  trundle-bed 
from  which  Thomas  had  so  proudly  graduated  in  Green 
River.  Ample  for  Thomas,  it  was  a  Procrustean  fit  for 
Donny,  whose  lanky  legs  waved  over  the  foot  while  his 
skull  jammed  the  head-board.  But  he  had  dropped  off 
comforted,  a  fold  of  his  sister's  dress  gripped  tight  in  one 
small  freckled  hand.  Mercy's  pen  raced  on. 

"If  we  were  back  in  Green  River,  we'd  think  we  were 
dreadfully  unlucky,  for  this  house  is  so  small,  and  only 
four  real  rooms  to  it,  besides  the  lofts,  and  you  have  to 
climb  up  to  them  by  ladders.  But  there  is  a  lean-to  with  a 
big  fireplace  in  it;  we're  going  to  give  it  to  the  Captain 
for  his  own.  And  there  is  a  fair-sized  barn,  and  a  shed 
near  the  marsh  for  Jo  Vanny  to  live  in  and  keep  the  an- 
imals, except  the  lion,  Cartouche,  and  the  monkeys  that 
went  south  on  the  flat-boat  with  him.  And  when  summer 
comes  there  will  be  loads  of  wild  flowers  in  the  marsh. 
But  not  one  solitary  tree.  Only  the  little  peach-pie  trees 
that  Mr.  Lincoln  brought. 

"Of  course  I  can  manage  all  right,  though  it  is  handier 
to  keep  a  house  with  ten  rooms,  besides  the  toolhouse  and 
the  carriage-house  and  a  big  barn  and  a  wagon-shed  and  all 


148  THE    FATHER 

the  rest.  Besides  back  home  we  had  water  piped  into  the 
house,  and  that  is  much  easier  than  carrying  it  all  the  time. 
The  Captain  pumps  lots,  but  he  gets  tired,  and  then  he 
splashes  so.  And  Twonnet  forgets  or  else  she  fusses  at  the 
Captain  for  spilling  and  he  snaps  back  at  her.  Aunty  is  right. 
If  the  mumps  and  the  Apostle  hadn't  delayed  us  so,  we'd 
have  been  settled  long  ago. 

"AH  our  old  things  look  hustled  and  scared  and  queer. 
We  had  to  nail  board  seats  onto  Aunty's  chairs  where  the 
horses  chewed  them  and  it  makes  them  look  too  forlorn,  and 
we  couldn't  get  the  pineapple  bed  into  the  house  unless 
we  chopped  off  the  poor  little  pineapple  hands  first,  and 
the  carpets  are  miles  too  big,  and  the  eagle  mirror  has  to 
sit  flat  on  the  floor. 

"I'm  beginning  to  see  what  Mr.  Emerson  meant  when 
he  scolded  Father  so,  and  told  him  he  wasn't  pioneer  ma- 
terial. If  we  didn't  have  Mr.  Lincoln  around,  I  don't  see 
how  we  would  ever  manage.  He  drops  in  almost  every 
day,  and  he  always  finds  something  to  do.  He  chops  wood 
and  he  surveyed  our  land  over  again  and  found  it  was  six 
acres  short,  so  he  took  Father  into  town  and  hunted  up  Mr. 
Timothy  Lyman,  and  told  him  he'd  have  to  make  a  new 
deed  and  have  it  recorded.  Mr.  Timothy  said,  very  brash 
indeed,  Oh,  is  that  so,  the  sale  is  over  and  done  with,  and 
Mr.  Lincoln  told  him,  Oh,  all  right,  we  will  see  what  the 
court  says  about  that.  Then  Mr.  Timothy  said,  Do  you 
want  to  ruin  me,  Lawyer  Lincoln  and  Mr.  Lincoln  told 
him,  Not  for  untold  riches.  I  merely  want  to  help  your 
good  deeds  to  shine  out  in  a  naughty  world.  So  Mr.  Tim- 
othy gave  in  and  now  we  have  six  more  acres  of  good 
plow  land. 

"Father  says  he  is  going  to  farm  the  place  himself,  but 
I  don't  see  how  he  can,  for  he  works  so  hard  down  at  the 
office,  as  it  is,  and  prints  dozens  of  hand-bills  every  day. 


THE    FATHER  149 

We  are  thankful  that  he  has  them  to  do,  for  every  little 
helps.  Mr.  Lincoln  has  brought  the  cunningest  yellow 
puppy  for  the  little  boys,  and  the  little  boys  are  ready  to 
burst  with  pride  because  Mr.  Lincoln  told  them  he  was 
at  least  six  kinds  of  dog,  maybe  more.  His  name  is  Trouble, 
and  he  certainly  earns  it,  for  he  is  cutting  his  teeth  on 
everything.  But  we  all  love  him.  Except  maybe  Aunty. 

"People  here  are  pretty  much  like  the  way  they  are 
everywhere  else,  except  in  some  ways  they  are  different.  I 
am  going  to  the  office  to  help  Father,  all  next  week.  It 
would  be  lots  of  fun  if  it  wasn't  for  the  Owens.  There  are 
two  Owens,  and  they  are  forever  hanging  around  Father's 
office,  and  acting  as  if  they  owned  the  place  and  Father 
and  me  and  all.  They  are  brothers  and  sort  of  youngish 
and  very  rich.  They  own  two  thousand  acres  of  splendid 
land  and  they  have  no  end  of  cows  and  horses  and  they 
drive  the  fastest  teams  in  the  state.  Folks  all  tell  you  so. 
They  wear  the  most  elegant  checked  suits  and  stovepipe 
hats  every  single  day  and  enormous  diamond  rings  and 
high  shiny  boots.  Father  says  you  can  see  to  shave  yourself 
in  them.  The  elder  Owen  is  all  right,  they  say,  but  Fred- 
erick, the  younger,  is  a  Smart  Aleck  if  ever  I  saw  one.  I 
have  never  laid  eyes  on  him  but  once.  However,  that  once 
was  enough  for  me. 

"Bakerstown  has  lots  of  stores  but  only  one  church. 
Folks  call  it  the  Lord's  Barn,  and  anybody  who  feels  he 
has  a  call  can  come  along  and  preach  in  it.  It  has  benches 
instead  of  pews,  and  last  Sunday  there  was  a  Campbellite 
audience,  and  the  week  before  came  the  Hard-shell  Baptists, 
and  to-morrow  we  shall  have  the  privilege  of  hearing  a 
prominent  Phrenologist  from  Boston. 

"I  have  not  had  a  letter  from  Lemuel,  only  the  one 
Father  brought  from  the  office  the  other  night.  I  do  not 
worry  much  about  Lemuel.   In  this  letter  he  said,   What 


150  THE    FATHER 

with  the  town  girls  and  the  Academy  girls  both  he  was 
surrounded  by  Temptation  and  he  did  wish  I  would  write 
home  and  tell  everybody  that  I  am  engaged  to  him. 

"I  wish  he  would  yield  to  his  old  Temptations  and  quit 
pestering  me." 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

THE  CLARION  CALL  OF  FREEDOM 


Volume  One.  Published  at  Bakerstown,  Illinois.  Number  One 

December  first,  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty 


State  Sovereignty  and  National  Union 

FATHER  pulled  out  the  damp  page  with  hands  that 
shook.  The  first  copy  of  his  new  paper.  He  had 
written  it  and  set  it  up  and  toiled  over  it  inch  by  inch. 
Here  it  stood,  the  bodying  forth  of  his  long  dream. 

The  Clarion  had  just  four  large  flapping  pages.  The 
front  page  bore  a  majestic  heading  portraying  the  God- 
dess of  Liberty  blowing  a  trumpet.  Evidently  the  Clarion 
itself.  On  her  robust  shoulder  perched  the  Eagle,  a  meek 
and  lop-sided  eagle,  but  fairly  impressive.  From  its  beak 
floated  a  scroll  which  set  forth  the  invariable  slogan :  "State 
Sovereignty  and  National  Union." 

The  entire  first  page  was  devoted  to  the  first  installment 
of  that  thrilling  and  meritorious  novel,  The  Bandit's 
Bride>  by  L.  M.  Alcott,  and  two  solid  columns  of  appal- 
ling obituary  poetry  by  home  talent.  Forthright  and  two- 
fisted  home  talent.  Father  had  groaned  at  the  avalanche 
of  harmony  that  descended  on  him  from  the  first  hour. 
But  Mr.  Lincoln  urged  him  to  print  every  word  that  was 
sent  in. 

"Remember,  Stafford.  You  can  criticize  a  man's  looks, 
or  his  clothes,  or  his  wife.  You  can  give  it  out  that  he  has 


152  THE    FATHER 

sneaked  out  here  to  live  down  a  regrettable  past.  You 
can  spread  the  glad  tidings  that  back  east  he  was  well 
known  as  a  miser  and  a  usurer,  a  liar  and  a  horse-thief. 
All  that  will  be  forgiven  you.  But  if  he  sends  in  a  chunk 
of  obituary  poetry,  publish  it.  No  matter  though  it  has 
stringhalt  and  is  sway-backed  and  lame  in  both  knees. 
Publish  it.  And  plaster  it  up  with  praise.  For  you've  got  a 
growing  family  to  support.  You  don't  want  to  be  cut  down 
in  the  prime  of  life.  Not  yet." 

Hence  the  flow  of  soul  that  spread  over  the  front  page 
and  splashed  melodious  trickles  on  the  inner  pages,  too. 

After  you  had  waded  through  that  freshet  of  harmony 
you  climbed  on  the  extremely  dry  land  of  the  inner  pages. 
A  few  lines  of  news;  a  long  and  harrowing  description, 
by  an  eye-witness,  of  the  battle  of  Buena  Vista,  which 
had  occurred  only  four  or  five  years  ago;  one  or  two  items 
concerning  a  recent  county  election,  during  which  several 
gentlemen  received  black  eyes  and  various  bruises;  a  column 
of  land  sales.  Next,  the  advertisements:  Fresh  Eggs  at 
five  cents  the  dozen,  Butter  eight  cents  a  pound,  Fresh 
Venison  the  quarter,  seventy-five  cents.  In  more  impres- 
sive type,  "C.  Warren,  Apothecary.  Also  deals  in  Shoes, 
Tinware,  Violins,  Fodder,  and  Seraphines."  "J.  D.  Badger, 
Stylish  Daguerrier."  "John  Carter,  Genteel  Undertaker." 
"E.  Guthrie,  Mouth  Organs,  Tuning  Forks,  Files,  Saws, 
and  Gen'l  Hardware."  The  half-column  of  bank-paper 
values,  copied  from  The  Detector,  completed  the  issue. 
All  but  one  short  paragraph. 

This  paragraph  headed  the  Editorial  Column,  the  most 
conspicuous  place  to  be  found.  It  was  not  merely  an  edi- 
torial. It  was  a  slogan. 

"The  Editor  is  informed  that  there  exists  in  this  dis- 
trict a  division  of  opinion  on  the  subject  of  Negro  Slavery. 


THE    FATHER  153 

We  wish  to  place  ourselves  on  record  as  being  unalterably 
opposed  to  the  continued  existence  of  Slavery.  We  demand 
of  our  Government  its  immediate  Abolition.  Abolition  by 
purchase  and  colonization,  by  measures  of  peace,  if  that 
be  possible.  But  Abolition,  even  though  it  may  be  con- 
summated only  by  the  Sword." 

He  read  that  paragraph  twice.  Then  he  folded  the  paper 
and  went  out  on  the  dull  December  street.  He  was  shaking 
with  exultation.  A  fever  of  triumph  swept  him.  He  had 
carried  out  his  lifelong  wish.  He  had  made  his  creed  so 
clear,  so  convincing,  that  it  seemed  impossible  that  any 
human  being  could  fail  to  accept  it.  His  battle  was  as  good 
as  won.  He  drove  home  at  top  speed,  dizzy  and  aflame 
with  glory. 

He  sprang  off  Button  and  banged  into  the  living-room. 

"Mercy  Rose!   See  what  I've  brought  for  you.  Look!" 

The  living-room  was  warm  and  silent.  He  called  again. 
From  the  sofa  in  her  own  room,  Aunty  called  feebly: 

"She  went  to  the  schoolhouse  for  the  little  boys.  Then 
she  said  they'd  all  walk  to  the  postoffice  and  bring  the 
mail." 

Father's  exultation  dimmed.  He  scowled  irritably.  What 
possessed  her?  Didn't  she  know  that  his  paper  was  coming 
out  to-day?  Why  couldn't  she  have  stayed  at  home  this 
day  of  all  days? 

He  chafed  in  silence  till  she  came.  There  had  been  a 
light  fall  of  snow  followed  by  a  crispy  crunch  of  sleet. 
So  the  little  boys  had  taken  their  sleds  and  she  rode  home 
in  bumpy  state,  hauled  first  on  one  sled,  then  on  another. 
The  sharp  air  lit  steady  fires  in  her  gray  eyes,  colored  her 
petal  cheeks  to  fiery  rose.  Sticking  from  the  pocket  of  her 
short  jacket  he  glimpsed  a  pale  blue  envelope.  Behind  that 
envelope  you  could  see  two  wistful  pale   blue   eyes,   two 


154  THE    FATHER 

pale  tow  spit-curls.  You  staggered  under  a  thunderous 
whiff    of    bergamot.   .   .  . 

Not  one  word  did  Mercy  speak  regarding  that  letter. 
And  to  her  father  this  silence  was  in  itself  betrayal.  In 
the  midst  of  her  eager,  anxious  praise  he  saw  her  hand 
stray  to  touch  that  envelope. 

"And  what  do  you  say  to  my  editorial,  Mercy?  I  plan 
to  keep  it  standing  permanently  at  the  head  of  that  column. 
They  shall  not  say  I  am  evading  the  issue." 

"Your Why,    yes.    Why,    it's   perfectly   splendid, 

Father.  I  don't  believe  there  is  another  editor  in  America 
who  could  have  written  it  half  so  well.  Whenever  I  think 
of  it  I'm  going  to  be  prouder  of  you  than  ever." 

Loyal,  loving,  proud.  Flesh  of  his  flesh.  Core  of  his 
lonely  soul.  And  to-day  farther  from  him  than  the  farthest 
star. 

The  winter  weeks  slipped  by,  beads  of  pale  amber  and 
snow  and  pearl  on  a  string  of  silver  frost.  Every  day 
brought  new  puzzles  for  Mercy.  Her  days  were  swifter 
than  the  flying  clouds.  Somehow  the  Clarion  did  not  ex- 
actly prosper.  For  one  thing,  some  of  the  solid  citizens 
from  whom  Father  had  expected  both  approval  and  coop- 
eration drew  back.  Drew  back  and  looked  down  their 
worthy  noses  from  the  moment  that  they  laid  eyes  on  the 
first  issue.  They  admired  the  paper.  Oh,  surely.  But  if 
Father  dared  refer  to  that  editorial  challenge,  his  slogan, 
there  fell  a  blighting  silence.  Sometimes  an  even  more 
blighting  comment. 

"Tell  'em  that  if  they  don't  like  your  slogan,  Father, 
they  can  lump  it." 

"They're  not  really  bitter  against  my  beliefs.  They  hate 
the  thought  of  agitation,  that's  all.  They  want  to  slide 
along  in  their  comfortable  old  groove." 


THE    FATHER  155 

"Let  them  slide,  then.  They  can't  discourage  you,  any- 
way." 

"They're  rather  discouraging  to  my  pocketbook,  though. 
Sorry  to  admit  it." 

Another  unexpected  difficulty  lay  in  the  reluctance  of 
the  subscribers  to  pay  up  in  real  money.  Instead,  they 
would  haul  in  a  load  of  wood,  poor  wood  at  that;  a  few 
bushels  of  vegetables,  a  half-dozen  chickens.  The  little 
office  grew  cluttered  with  artless  swaps.  A  patent  churn, 
which  shot  a  geyser  of  cream  to  the  ceiling  on  its  first 
tryout,  a  farm  gate  which  shut  automatically  but  wouldn't 
open  unless  you  took  the  ax  to  it,  a  rickety  melodeon,  a 
collection  of  preserves  from  some  too-thrifty  pantry,  prof- 
fered with  the  air  of  an  all-too-cheerful  giver,  and  prov- 
ing to  be  either  sugared  off  or  worked.  And  then  the 
turnips!  Evidently  the  editor  who  preceded  Father  had 
cherished  a  guilty  passion  for  turnips.  They  stood  stacked 
in  bushels  on  the  office  floor  till  the  Captain  got  around  to 
digging  a  pit  for  them,  under  the  barn.  And  the  gnurly 
apples  and  sad,  stringy  carrots  and  cabbages  that  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  buried  once  and  then  dug  up  again! 
But  the  supreme  offering  was  the  fearful  and  wonderful 
portrait  of  his  maternal  grandfather  brought  by  one  frugal 
subscriber.  This  ancestor  had  been  without  doubt  an  esti- 
mable citizen,  a  good  provider,  a  kind  husband  and  father. 
But  in  this  portrait  his  godly  lineaments  appeared  a  con- 
glomeration of  features  resembling  at  once  the  benevolent 
and  bewhiskered  Nathaniel  Wigglesworth,  and  the  late 
river  pirate,  Murrell. 

"They  was  a  peddler  came  along  once,  and  he  painted 
portraits  at  a  dollar  apiece  or  two  for  a  dollar-fifty.  So  we 
had  Grampa  and  Gramma  painted.  I  always  kind  of  liked 

them,  but  my  wife Well.  You  know  what  wimmen 

folks  are.  Along  the  third  time  I  found  Gramp  down  in 


156  THE    FATHER 

the  root-cellar,  I  kind  of  decided  she  didn't  care  much  for 
having  him  around.  Even  though  I'd  paid  out  two  dollars 
and  a  quarter  for  this  elegant  gold  frame.  So  I  brought 
him  over.  I  'lotted  he'd  ought  to  pay  my  subscription, 
maybe  three  years  ahead." 

"Sorry,  but  I  can't  apply  your  grandfather  on  your 
subscription.  I've  got  more  family  portraits  than  I  can  use 
right  now." 

"But  maybe Say,  listen.  I  donno's  grandfather  is 

worth  so  much.  But  that  frame  cost  money.  S'pose  you 
credit  me  with  the  two  dollars  and  a  quarter.  Then  some 
time  you  may  have  your  own  portrait  painted,  and  that 
frame  will  come  in  mighty  handy." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  But  Father  spoke  under  his  breath. 
For  the  would-be  subscriber  was  John  Carter,  Genteel  Un- 
dertaker. He  had  already  put  a  paid  advertisement  in  the 
Clarion.  He  might  be  persuaded  to  enter  another.  Thus 
expediency  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all.  For  months  on 
months  Gramp  shed  a  lurid  splendor  from  the  office  wall. 

Twonnet  was  an  enigma  in  herself.  She  worshiped 
Mercy.  But  as  worshipers  so  often  are,  she  was  a  weari- 
ness to  her  idol.  Mercy  needed,  and  desperately,  a  capable 
Martha  in  her  household.  But  there  was  little  of  Martha 
in  Twonnet.  Pocahontas,  rather,  and  an  untutored  Poca- 
hontas at  that.  Deep  in  Twonnet,  her  Indian  blood,  her 
gypsy  blood,  was  forever  tugging  at  the  leash  of  love  and 
gratitude  that  held  her  to  Mercy.  She  would  no  more  have 
severed  it  than  she  would  have  severed  her  own  veins. 
But  the  pull  was  there.  She  fretted  under  it.  And  so  did 
Mercy. 

"But  Twonnet  would  die  for  you,  daughter." 

"Nobody  asks  her  to  die  for  me.  But  I'd  be  thankful  if 
she  would  wash  the  milkpans  just  once  without  leaving  soft 


THE    FATHER  157 

soap  rims  on  'em.  Show  her  how?  I've  showed  her  till  I 
can  feel  my  brain  crinkle  into  knots." 

"Try  her  with  outdoor  work." 

Mercy  attempted  to  teach  her  to  milk.  The  cows,  how- 
ever, viewed  Twonnet  with  alarm  and  refused  to  give  down 
their  milk.  She  set  her  to  sweep  and  clean.  Twonnet  left  the 
mop-pail  where  the  Captain's  tottery  old  foot  would  be 
sure  to  trip  on  it.  She  attacked  Jo  Vanny's  shed  with 
unholy  zeal  and  swept  Jo  out  bodily,  coughing  and  sneez- 
ing and  speaking  strange  Sicilian  words  (words  eagerly 
adopted  by  the  little  boys,  who  joyously  collected  anathe- 
mas as  ancient  as  their  collection  of  arrowheads).  She  set 
Twonnet  to  scalding  the  wash.  Twonnet  forgot  and  left 
the  boiler  to  its  own  devices.  It  was  jam-full  of  Aunty's 
solidly  embroidered  best  petticoat,  the  fruit  of  a  year's 
handiwork.  Of  course  it  was  scorched  to  ruin.  "And  I'd 
calculated  on  another  five  years'  wear,  anyway,  and  then 
I  'lotted  on  wearing  it  under  my  shroud!  You  hear  me, 
Mercy,  no  use  trying  with  her.  She's  upset  the  cows' 
stomachs,  and  she's  got  the  Captain  miffed,  and  who 
wouldn't  be,  with  every  inch  of  skin  knocked  off  both 
shins,  and  she's  put  Jo  Vanny  where  he  froths  at  the 
mouth  whenever  he  sees  her  coming.  Does  worse  with  his 
mouth  than  froth,  too.  Let  her  pump  water  and  bring  in 
firewood  and  play  tag  with  the  little  boys.  That's  all  she's 
good  for." 

So  Twonnet  played  tag.  Incidentally — for  she  hated 
the  tight,  warm  house  like  the  wild  thing  she  was — she 
helped  herself  to  the  twigs  and  branches  from  the  pile  of 
firewood,  and  by  adding  armfuls  of  clean  straw  she  built 
up  a  tiny  tepee  close  to  the  well.  In  it,  save  in  the  bitterest 
weather,  she  ate  and  slept.  The  little  boys  were  enchanted. 
They  popped  in  to  visit  her  in  season  and  out  of  season. 


158  THE    FATHER 

"Let  her  alone.  'Drive  out  Nature  with  a  stick,  she 
will  come  running  back,'  Mr.  Emerson  used  to  say,"  de- 
clared Father  consolingly.  Mercy  sighed  with  relief.  With 
Twonnet  safely  in  the  tepee,  she  could  neither  spill  nor 
burn  nor  break. 

The  Captain,  frail  as  he  was,  proved  less  a  source  of 
worry.  And  Jo  Vanny  had  regained  his  strength,  although 
he  was  still  pitifully  lame.  He  had  regained  his  appetite 
too.  Now  and  then,  when  Mercy  observed  his  activities  as 
a  trencherman,  a  queer  shiver  ran  through  her.  Oh,  well! 
Never  mind.  What  with  the  pickerel  stored  in  the  ice-cov- 
ered brook  and  the  squirrels  that  the  little  boys  so  proudly 
brought  in  and  the  venison  and  the  wild  turkeys  and  the 
vegetables  that  the  subscribers  offered,  they  would  fare 
sumptuously  through  the  winter.  By  spring,  everything 
would  be  all  right.  Everything  always  worked  out  all 
right  when  spring  came  again.  Anyhow,  Father  would 
have  been  ten  times  as  hurried  and  anxious  and  miserable 
if  he  had  turned  away  these  forlorn  waif -children  of  his. 
As  long  as  Father  had  a  roof  and  a  kettle  of  cornmeal 
mush,  it  wouldn't  be  Father  if  he  wasn't  eager  to  share. 

Then  there  was  Mr.  Lincoln.  But  at  thought  of  him, 
Mercy  glowed,  contentedly.  No  puzzle  in  Mr.  Lincoln's 
visits!  Solutions,  rather.  He  dropped  in  almost  every  day. 
There  was  something  curious  about  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  was 
often  grave,  sometimes  as  serious,  as  depressed,  even,  as 
was  Father.  But  he  brought  always  a  sense  of  rest  and 
ease,  of  tranquil,  unchanging  comfort.  It  wasn't  just  the 
kind  and  generous  things  he  did  for  you,  though  they  were 
past  counting.  But  the  minute  he  entered  the  house,  you 
felt  his  presence.  A  great  sober,  gentle  presence,  who  knew 
all  the  things  that  bothered  you  and  harassed  you  though 
you  did  not  tell  him  one  word.  Who  quietly,  patiently, 
put  his  mighty  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  lifted,  precisely 


THE    FATHER  159 

as  he  had  put  his  mighty  shoulder  to  their  mired-down 
wagon.  Who,  understanding  everything,  never  pried,  never 
pestered;  but  gave  forth,  gently,  silently,  a  comradeship 
that  picked  you  up  out  of  your  small  fractious,  worrying 
day  and  set  you  on  a  high  mountain  where  you  could  see 
how  tiny,  how  trifling,  were  all  your  frets  and  worries  and 
how  surely  you  were  conquering  them. 

He  would  ride  up,  a  gaunt  scarecrow  on  his  clumsy,  sure- 
footed Old  Tom,  looking  to  outward  sight  as  sullen  and 
dismal  as  the  sullen  day  itself.  He  would  be  clad,  as 
always,  in  the  flapping  black  coat  above  trousers  that  struck 
high-water-mark  on  his  endless  shanks.  Sometimes  over  it 
he  wore  the  frayed  old  greatcoat  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  soaked  in  the  creek  and  then  dried  over  a  chair-back, 
as  it  undoubtedly  had  been.  He  would  sit  down — lop  down, 
to  use  Aunty's  word — in  the  biggest  chair,  and  overflow 
it  with  his  sprawling,  unbelievable  legs  and  arms,  and  tilt 
back  his  rumpled  head  with  its  coarse,  rough,  black  hair 
("Injun  hair,"  again  to  quote  Aunty),  as  if  he  were  too 
tired,  too  disheartened,  for  speech.  But  don't  you  believe 
it.  In  two  minutes  he'd  be  "wrassling"  with  Adoniram, 
while  Seth  and  Thomas,  mad  with  excitement,  jumped  up 
and  down  and  cheered  him  on.  Then  (providing  Aunty  did 
not  come  in  and  inquire  in  her  mildly  scornful  tones, 
was  this  a  civilized  house,  or  had  they  taken  to  breaking 
wild  horses  here)  he  would  transform  himself  into  all  the 
animals  that  ever  pranced  out  of  the  Ark.  He  would  be  a 
terrifying  lion,  an  agile  kangaroo,  a  gigantic  serpent, 
writhing  towards  its  bawling,  ecstatic  prey.  He  would  be  a 
wild  boar,  a  slim  and  languishing  giraffe.  Usually  he  would 
wind  up,  grunting  and  bubbling  (just  as  it  told  you  in 
the  Thompson's  Natural  History!)  a  ship  of  the  desert. 
The  resultant  ship-wreck,  square  in  the  middle  of  the 
Sahara,  would  leave  the  survivors  hoarse  and  frenzied. 


160  THE    FATHER 

"What's  this  board,  all  inlaid  in  pearl  and  ivory  and 
silver?"  he  asked,  after  one  such  bout,  as  he  stood  panting 
by  the  old  Chippendale  table. 

"That's  Father's  chess-board." 

"I've  read  about  them.  But  I  never  laid  eyes  on  one 
before.  Want  to  show  me  how  to  play  the  game?" 

Ensued  a  triangular  riot.  The  victor  then  plunged  into 
the  envied  task,  summoned  the  ranks  of  ivory  and  ebony. 

"First  you  fix  them  like  this.  Pawns  in  the  front  row. 
Then  kings  and  queens  and  knights  and  castles  and 
bishops " 

"Sounds  like  real  folks.  Pawns  are  common  folks  like 
you  and  me.  So  you  put  the  pawns  right  in  front  where 
they'll  get  the  full  shock  of  battle.  H'm'm.  Sounds  like 
nowadays,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  you  fix  'em  straight  and  steady.  Kings 
and  queens  right  where  they  belong " 

"I  see.  Kings  and  queens  have  to  toe  the  mark  like 
everybody  else,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  then  you  sit  down.  And  you  think." 

"Here!  What's  that?  Think!  Why,  man  alive,  think- 
ing is  the  toughest  work  anybody  can  do.  Too  tough  for 
most  of  us.  Why,  lots  of  people  go  floundering  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave  and  never  think  once." 

"But  Father  says  you  can't  play  a  good  game  of  chess, 
'less  you  think,  hard." 

"No.  Nor  a  good  game  of  anything  else,  I  reckon.  Not 
even  of  lawing.  Evening,  Mr.  Stafford.  Here's  your  son, 
the  precocious  young  sprout,  setting  forth  the  truth  that 
even  in  chess  there  is  no  profit  save  to  the  toiling  mind. 
Adam's  curse  is  smeared  over  everything.  Even  that  chess- 
board." 

"No.  The  toiling  mind  must  dominate  all  our  world.  It 
ought  to  dominate  our  political  views  too,  Mr.  Lincoln." 


THE    FATHER  161 

Mr.  Lincoln  looked  amazingly  squelched.  Then  fell  a 
silence.  In  that  dim  twilight  room  you  had  the  queerest 
feeling  that  someone  else  had  put  a  mighty  Question.  And 
that  Mr.  Lincoln  had  turned  aside  rather  than  try  to 
answer. 

"In  time  even  that  miracle  will  be  wrought." 

But  Father  was  merciless. 

"Judging  by  the  deliberations  that  our  best  citizens  in- 
dulge in,  I  should  figure  that  date  as  approximating  the 
Millennium." 

Mr.  Lincoln  actually  flinched  at  that. 

"Well.  .  .  .  All  we  can  do  right  now  is  to  hold  fast  to 
the  camp-meeting  hymn,"  and  he  rose  aloft  like  a  leisurely 
Titan.  He  flung  Thomas  to  his  shoulder  and  began  to  march 
and  sing, 

"Keep  a-inchiny  along, 
Keep  a-inchiny  along. 
And  we'll  all  git  to  Heaven,  by  and  by." 

"Thomas,  I  brought  along  a  bite  or  so  for  my  own 
supper.  Suppose  Aunty  and  Mercy  will  let  me  stay  and  eat 
with  you  folks?" 

Then  Thomas  and  his  brothers  would  depart  for  the 
barn,  whooping.  They  would  dig  into  Mr.  Lincoln's  sad- 
dle-bags and  find  mysterious  parcels.  These  would  not  be 
for  Mr.  Lincoln's  supper  alone.  Far  from  it.  There  would 
be  a  ham,  a  big,  tender,  juicy  one,  not  much  resembling  the 
scrubby  relics  that  the  subscribers  brought  in.  There  would 
be  choice  tea  for  Aunty  and  a  big  sack  of  raisins,  and 
maybe,  for  a  grand  treat,  an  orange  apiece.  Then  Mercy 
would  hurry  their  supper  on  the  table  and  Father  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  would  eat  and  talk  and  talk  and  eat,  and  minute 
by  minute  you  could  see  them  grow  rested  and  reassured. 
They  would  throw  off  the  day's  heavy  weariness.   They 


i62  THE    FATHER 

would  settle  into  the  collar,  as  Mr.  Lincoln  would  say, 
ready  for  the  next  long,  grinding-hard  day.  And  when  the 
fat  whale-oil  lamp  burned  low,  Mr.  Lincoln  would  say, 
with  ceremony,  "Thomas,  may  I  share  your  bed-chamber 
this  once  more?"  And  up  the  ladder-steps  they  would 
climb.  Little  'Fraid's  yellow  head  bobbing  with  sleep,  and 
Big  'Fraid  spreading  out  a  hand  the  size  of  the  Hand  of 
Providence,  to  make  sure  he  wouldn't  fall. 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

CHRISTMAS  was  coming,  Seth  remarked,  but  with- 
out much  conviction.  For  to  proper  New  England 
children  Christmas  was  a  Papist  festival,  nothing  more. 
If  you  were  a  Puritan  father  and  longed  shamefacedly  to 
give  your  little  sons  some  special  happiness  you  put  a  shiny 
new  dime  and  maybe  a  jack-knife,  and  a  stick  of  candy 
under  their  plates  on  New  Year's  morning.  But  never, 
never  did  you  give  one  shred  of  tribute  to  Christmas  Day. 
Never. 

Thus  far  these  pitiful  substitutes  for  the  loveliest  day 
of  the  year  had  been  eminently  satisfactory,  for  the  little 
boys  knew  nothing  better.  But  here  in  this  mid-west 
school  they  had  been  thrown  with  pagan  children  who 
spoke  of  Santa  Claus  with  an  assurance  which  roused  long- 
ings akin  to  desperation. 

Father  listened:  then  he  so  far  forgot  his  principles  as 
to  tell  Aunty  what  he  wanted  to  do.  Aunty  nipped  his 
yearnings  in  the  bud. 

"Heathen  performance  as  I  ever  heard  tell  on.  What  if 
the  other  parents  do  give  their  children  Christmas  gifts, 
Ephraim  is  joined  to  his  idols.  Let  him  go." 

"But,  Aunty,  when  you  think  it  over " 

"Don't  think  it  over.  Else  you  may  open  the  door  of  your 
soul  to  the  Devil  himself.  Hold  fast  to  the  beliefs  of  your 
fathers.  So  shall  you  escape  everlasting  destruction." 

Father  made  a  stagger  at  that.  But  two  days  before 
Christmas,  little  Thomas  had  a  bad  attack  of  croup.  It 
was  hard  enough  to  resist  little  Thomas  under  any  condi- 


1 64  THE    FATHER 

tions.  But  when  he  sat  propped  up  in  the  wide  pineapple 
bed  glittering  with  goosegrease,  smelling  to  heaven  with 
lard  and  turpentine,  and  gasped  hour  after  hour  for  his 
little  life,  small  chance  of  withstanding  him. 

"Now,  Thomas,  swallow  this.   Down  it,  quick,  son!" 

Little  Thomas  turned  faintly  green,  but  gulped,  obe- 
diently. 

"Good.  Goes  down  pretty  hard,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  would  go  down  lots  easier" — a  gulp — "if  I  thought 
maybe  we  was  going  to  have  any  Christmas." 

That  settled  Father.  It  would  have  settled  a  Spartan 
parent. 

At  twilight  he  went  to  the  barn,  hitched  up  Button, 
tossed  in  the  ax,  and  drove  down  towards  the  evergreen 
grove  three  miles  away.  This  was  an  unfrequented  road. 
The  nearest  house  was  the  Hewitt's,  almost  a  mile  away. 
Old  Major  Hewitt  was  past  ninety  and  his  gaunt  old-maid 
daughter  was  close  on  seventy,  and  in  this  raw  cold  weather 
they  would  hardly  venture  out  to  spy.  But  Father  crept 
through  the  grove  with  guilty  caution  and  slid  behind  a 
clump  of  trees  whenever  he  imagined  that  he  heard  an 
approaching  team.  He  seized  on  the  first  tiny  tree  in  sight, 
chopped  it  down,  and  hustled  it  under  the  buffalo  robe  as 
if  he  hid  stolen  treasure. 

It  was  full  dusk  when  he  drove  into  the  barnyard.  Jo 
Vanny  hobbled  to  meet  him  and  put  up  Button.  Father 
waved  him  away.  Then  the  old  Captain  came  weaving 
down  the  steps. 

"Let  me  tend  to  that  air  horse.  You  go  in  and  git  your 
supper." 

"Never  mind.  I'll  put  Button  up  myself." 

He  drove  into  the  barn,  chaise  and  all.  Pity  a  man 
couldn't  be  permitted  to  put  up  his  own  horse,  and  thus 
have  a  chance  to  slip  his  stolen  goods  into  the  hayloft! 


THE    FATHER  165 

But  he  had  just  unhitched  Button  when  he  heard  the  ring 
of  hoofs.  And  then  Mr.  Lincoln's  voice: 

"Never  mind,  Captain.  I'll  put  up  Old  Tom  myself. 
Go  'long,  Jo  Vanny,  I  don't  need  any  help.  Listen,  if  I 
want  either  of  you  I'll  holler." 

Father  cowered  behind  a  manger. 

Into  the  barn  clattered  the  big  roan.  After  him,  stealthy 
as  the  First  Conspirator,  trod  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  carried 
something  long  and  bristling.  As  he  passed  Father,  a  brush 
of  prickling  spicy  needles  swept  his  cheek. 

The  devil  entered  into  Father. 

"Halt!" 

Mr.  Lincoln  stopped  as  if  he  were  shot.  Father  struck 
a  match;  the  lantern  wick  flared  high.  They  stood  and 
glared  at  each  other,  sheepish  as  two  schoolboys.  Under  one 
arm  Father  still  clutched  his  fat  little  tree.  High  in  Mr. 
Lincoln's  arms  reared  another  tree:  a  tall,  lean,  scrawny 
tree,  but  a  Christmas  tree  for  all  that. 

"Why "    Mr.   Lincoln   actually  stammered.    "Why 

— my  wife  and  the  boys  have  gone  to  Kentucky  to  her 
father's  for  Christmas.  I  thought  you  folks  wouldn't  mind 
if   I " 

"What  in  the  name  of  common  sense " 


The  barn-door  opened  again.  Father  gasped.  He  all  but 
dropped  the  lantern.  Aunt  Celestial 

Aunty's  steel  specks  were  cocked  like  horrified  eye- 
brows. Her  crimped  front  bristled;  her  eyes  snapped  sparks. 

"What  in  Tunket John  Stafford,   what  have  you 

been  up  to?   After  what  I  told  you !    And  you,  Mr. 

Lincoln!    I  am  surprised!" 

The  men  stood  limp.  Not  a  sound  out  of  them.  But  sud- 
denly Father's  cringing  head  lifted  high. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Aunt  Celesty.  But  what's  that  in 
your  apron  pocket?" 


1 66  THE    FATHER 

It  was  Aunty's  turn  to  gasp. 

"None  of  your  business,  young  man." 

But  surely  the  Fiend  himself  had  entered  into  Father. 
Lincoln  gaped  at  him  awestruck.  For  he  strode  forward, 
seized  the  apron,  and  deftly  turned  the  pockets  inside  out. 
A  long  string  of  fluffy  kernels  of  popcorn;  under  that  a 
sack  of  spendthrift  store  candy.  Then  a  scarlet  mitten, 
half  knit;  and,  supremely  incriminating,  a  great  ball  of 
soft  rose  wool. 

"Come   now,   Aunty!    Own   up!" 

Aunty's  shriveled  cheeks  blazed. 

"Nobody  ever  heard  tell  of  such  impudence!  Well.  If 
you've  got  to  know,  the  boys  need  mittens  all  round.  And 
I've  been  aimin'  to  make  Mercy  a  nuby,  and  I  bought  pink, 
because  she  likes  it.  And  the  popcorn — I  heard  Thomas 
telling  Seth  that  on  Christmas  eve  he  was  going  to  pretend 
his  bedpost  was  a  tree  and  trim  it  up  with  his  string  of 
arrowheads.  I  don't  believe  anybody  would  ever  mistake  a 
bedpost  for  a  heathen  idol  so  I  thought  maybe  I'd  get 
them  a  couple  of  sticks  of  candy.  And  giving  it  to  'em  on 
the  twenty-fifth  of  December  ain't  much  difference  from 
the  twenty-fifth  of  any  other  month." 

Many  Christmases  would  come  for  the  small  StafTords, 
but  never  a  one  so  marvelous  as  this.  For  Mr.  Lincoln  un- 
bent abjectly  from  his  grand  estate  and  dressed  up  as  Santa 
Claus  in  a  buffalo  robe  and  a  shrunken  red  flannel  shirt  of 
Father's  that  strained  ominously  in  the  seams  and  split  a 
foot  or  so  in  the  back.  And  Aunty — Aunty! — brought  a 
gunny  sack  and  hung  it  to  his  shoulders.  First  she  packed 
it  half  full  of  dry  corn  to  make  it  look  gloriously  stuffed. 
But  next  she  tucked  in  two  warm,  thick,  home-made  shirts 
for  the  Captain  and  a  scarlet  jacket  for  Twonnet  and  a 
woolly  muffler  for  Jo  Vanny!   to  say  nothing  of  mittens 


THE    FATHER  167 

for  the  small  boys  and  the  rose-pink  nuby  for  Mercy  and  a 
fine  black  paddy-soy  stock  for  Father,  made  from  an  old 
silk  flounce.  Father  put  in  a  quarter  and  a  shiny  new 
Barlow  knife  for  each  boy.  And  Mr.  Lincoln  capped  the 
climax  by  piling  on  three  pairs  of  rubber  boots — high  red- 
top  boots  at  that! 

Even  as  she  crammed  in  these  evil  gifts  Aunty  felt 
a  weak  gratitude  that  Green  River  could  not  see  her. 

"Sorry  I  don't  favor  any  Santa  Claus  I've  seen."  Mr. 
Lincoln  observed  himself  sadly  in  the  ancient  eagle  mirror. 
"His  specifications  aren't  on  my  lines.  If  I  could  just  take 
about  two  feet  off  my  lateral  and  hook  it  on  to  my  hori- 
zontal  " 

"You'll  do  for  me,  just  as  you  are,"  croaked  Thomas, 
weak  with  ecstasy. 

Then  came  Christmas  dinner,  and  it  was  a  lordly  feast 
in  truth.  For  Father  had  shot  a  wild  turkey,  and  Mr.  Lin- 
coln brought  in  a  chunk  of  roasted  venison,  and  Mrs. 
Isaiah  Brooker,  their  nearest  neighbor,  only  two  miles 
away,  had  struggled  through  the  drifts  to  bring  a  vinegar 
pie  and  a  persimmon  pudding,  spicy  sweet.  Even  Thomas 
was  brought  to  the  table,  goosegrease  and  all,  to  have  his 
share. 

"Whenever  I  sit  down  to  a  meal  as  grand  as  this  one," 
remarked  Mr.  Lincoln,  "it  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  first 
really  grand  table  I  ever  stuck  my  legs  under.  I  was  four- 
teen, I  reckon,  and  a  man  grown;  I  was  working  for  Cap- 
tain Taylor,  ferrying  on  Anderson's  Crick.  Never  in  my 
life  had  I  known  any  folks  who  had  all  they  wanted  to 
eat  every  day.  And  ate  in  style  at  that.  But  old  Judge  Wel- 
lin  had  just  married  his  fourth  wife  and  they  were  keeping 
open  house  and  they  asked  Gene  Taylor,  my  chum,  and 
me,   to   Sunday   dinner. 

"There  was  a  white  cloth  on  the  table.  I  didn't  know 


168  THE    FATHER 

why  it  was  there,  and  I  was  scared  I'd  spill  things  on  it,  so 
when  nobody  was  looking  I  turned  back  my  corner  of  it 
so  I  could  eat  on  the  bare  boards.  Then  I  saw  there  was 
another  piece  of  white  cloth,  laid  right  at  my  place.  I 
didn't  know  what  in  the  nation  to  do  with  that,  but  I  saw 
that  the  Squire  had  one  too  and  he  tucked  her  up  under 
his  whiskers  tight  and  firm.  So,  while  I  hadn't  any  whis- 
kers, I  decided  most  likely  that  was  the  proper  thing.  And 
I  anchored  her  by  one  corner  inside  the  neck  of  my  shirt. 
I  was  as  nervous  as  a  colt  and  so  shaky  I  was  scared  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  swallow.  Something — that  white  cloth, 
maybe — seemed  to  tie  up  my  neck  and  choke  me.  But  after 
I'd  once  got  going  I  went  right  on  as  natural  as  life.  And 
nobody  seemed  to  notice  anything  amiss.  One  thing  I  do 
know:  my  hosts  couldn't  complain  that  I  had  slighted 
anything.  No,  sir,  I'd  put  my  hand  to  the  plow  and  I  never 
once  turned  back.  Corn  bread,  hot  biscuit,  and  waffles  with 
short  sweetnin'  and  long  sweetnin'  both,  and  roastin'  ears 
and  squirrel  pie  and  ham  and  gravy  and  all  the  trimmings. 
No,  sir,  nothing  passed  me  by.  Nor  me  it." 

"Did  you  get  real  filled  up?"  Thus  Seth,  with  eager 
sympathy. 

"As  near's  I  ever  can  fill  up.  I've  got  a  good  deal  of 
cargo  space,  you  know." 

"You're  considerable  longed  out,"  little  Thomas  re- 
flected. "But  you're  kind  of  caved  in  the  middle,  aren't 
you?" 

"Some.  I  got  my  growth  so  quick,  son,  I've  never  had 
time  to  fill  out.  Fact  is,  when  I  was  your  age,  I  never 
knew  what  it  meant  to  be  comfortable.  Always  cold.  Al- 
ways hungry.  And  sickness.  And  the  rain  coming  through 
the  roof  and  the  snow  dusting  through  the  cracks  and  never 
anything  real  dry  or  warm.  Mother  tried  her  best,  but  she 
was  always  having  the  three-day  ager,  and  when  you've 


THE    FATHER  169 

got  that  all  you  can  do  is  to  shiver  one  day  and  burn  up 
the  next.  And  Father  never  seemed  to  get  ahead,  for  it  kept 
him  busy  scratching  for  meal  and  molasses  to  keep  the 
meat  on  our  bones.  Down  on  those  bottom  lands  it  was 
always  lonesome,  too.  Woods  and  swamps  and  pretty 
much  nothing  else.  And  always  seeing  so  much  misery." 

Over  his  face  came  a  gray  look:  the  gray  shadow  of 
that  childhood,  so  bleak,  so  cold,  so  lonely.  The  look  of 
one  into  whose  soul  loneliness  has  seeped  like  the  rain 
through  the  log  chinks  till  the  very  tissues  of  his  spirit 
are  sodden  within  him. 

"Mind  this,  boys.  Soon's  you  fellows  grow  up  and  get 
ahead  so  you  can  spare  something  for  other  folks,  pass 
along  what  you've  got  to  children.  Old  folks  like  us  have 
learned  that  hard  times  don't  last  forever.  But  children 
.  .  .  when  a  boy  is  hungry  and  cold  and  miserable  it 
seems  to  him  that  things  never  can  be  different.  All  that 
misery  makes  a  mark  on  him  that  never  wears  out.  It  sinks 
in.  Sinks  in  to  stay." 

On  his  own  face  you  could  see  the  truth  of  what  he 
spoke:  the  shadow  that  had  sunk  in. 

"When  I  think  of  it,  it  sort  of  explains  why  I  don't 
get  along  better.  Remember,  you  boys,  I'm  banking  on 
you  to  turn  out  a  sight  better  than  I've  done.  You've  got 
your  chance  of  a  fine  education:  hold  tight  to  it.  Look  at 
me,  a  poor  lummox  of  a  country  lawyer.  Forty-one  years 
old  and  never  had  any  real  education.  Never  had  any  real 
schooling.  Never  had  a  real  chance.  Used  to  have  an  idea 
I  might  amount  to  something,  do  something  for  folks. 
But  I've  pretty  near  given  up  now." 

Nobody  said  anything.  After  a  minute  Aunty  got  up, 
her  bombazine  flounces  rustling,  and  went  across  to  Mr. 
Lincoln  and  gave  him  a  little  pat.  When  you  looked  at 
Aunty's  strong  bony  old  hand  you'd  have  thought  you'd  as 


170  THE    FATHER 

soon  be  patted  by  an  armadillo.  But  somehow  her  touch 
warmed  you  through  and  through. 

"Never  you  mind,  Mr.  Lincoln.  Forty-one  is  getting 
along,  but  it  ain't  so  old,  after  all.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
but  you'll  do  something  real  useful  for  folks  even  yet." 

Over  Mr.  Lincoln's  gaunt,  tired  face  came  a  queer 
wry  grin. 

"That's  as  fine  a  compliment  as  any  man  could  wish, 
Ma'am.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  complaining.  Only — when 
I  get  to  questioning  myself,  distrusting  myself,  I  slump 
down  so  far  it  takes  a  team  of  oxen  to  haul  me  out." 

"Every  real  man  distrusts  himself."  This  from  Father. 
"Even  when  he's  doing  his  level  best  to  carry  his  responsi- 
bilities without  a  whine  he  knows  he  is  lugging  the  heavier 
load  of  his  own  nature.  Deep  in  him  are  strange,  rebellious 
forces.  They're  built  into  us,  strained  into  our  blood,  from 
generations  back.  They  baffle  us  and  trip  us  up.  They  make 
us  doubt  everybody.  Ourselves,  most  of  all." 

"I  know  that.  No  man  lives  to  himself,  in  himself. 
Curious.  Some  of  us  distrust  ourselves  all  the  time.  Those 
are  the  hopeless  losers,  the  barren  stalks.  Others  never  dis- 
trust themselves.  They  trudge  along,  all  bulging  with  as- 
surance because  they  haven't  enough  gumption  to  know 
better.  Still  others  fight  out  that  battle  every  day.  Courage: 
despair.  Courage:  despair.  And  they  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  the  backbone,  the  wheat.  And  when  their  end  comes 
they  lie  down  in  the  dark.  But  their  faces  are  turned  to 
the  light." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  there  came  a  sound 
from  little  Thomas.  It  was  not  a  croupy  bark.  It  was  a 
sigh.  A  sigh  that  came  from  the  depths  of  his  small  in- 
nards. Mr.  Lincoln  looked  across  at  him.  His  face  broke 
up  into  understanding  crinkles. 

"This    isn't    what    you'd   call    a    lively   session,    is    it, 


THE    FATHER  i7i 

Thomas?  Never  mind.  We're  going  to  chirk  up  right  now. 
Seth  and  Adoniram,  you  two  thought  I  was  so  busy  eating 
my  dinner  that  I  wasn't  checking  up  on  you.  But  I  did.  And 
it's  my  belief  that  in  ratio  to  our  respective  capacities  you 
ate  more  than  I  did.  Come  outdoors  and  I'll  race  you  down 
the  lane  and  back.  The  first  one  that  founders  has  got  to 
sing  a  song,  cut  a  caper,  and  wash  the  dishes." 

Down  the  lane  tore  the  three.  Santa  Claus's  flannel  shirt 
still  blew  in  crimson  fragments  from  Mr.  Lincoln's  shoul- 
ders. Aunty's  purple  nuby  flapped  around  his  neck.  Donny 
and  Seth,  despite  their  brief  legs,  distanced  him  without 
mercy. 

"Now  for  your  caper,"  squawked  Thomas,  hoarse  with 
delight. 

Obediently  Mr.  Lincoln  cut  it.  It  jarred  the  solid  logs 
on  their  foundations. 

"Now  your  song " 

Mr.  Lincoln  stretched  himself  upward,  up  and  on  till 
his  rough  black  head  scraped  the  ceiling.  In  a  voice  that 
drowned  the  rising  wind  without,  he  lifted  an  ear-splitting 
chant. 

"I'll  chase  the  antelofe  over  the  flain. 
The  lion  wild,  Pll  bind  with  a  chain. 
And  the  dear  gazelle,  with  its  silvery  feet 
Pll  bring  to  you  for  a  flay  thing,  sweet " 


Everybody  applauded,  determinedly.  All  but  Thomas. 
"Don't  you  like  my  singing  voice,  Thomas?" 
"I'd  ruther  watch  you  wrassle,"  said  the  truthful  little 
Thomas. 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THEN  straight  after  Christmas  came  the  cold,  the  ter- 
rible prairie  cold,  that  locked  their  world  in  a  prison 
of  snow  and  ice  and  threw  away  the  key.  You  would  not  be- 
lieve that  even  April  could  ever  find  that  key.  The  Stafford 
family  had  known  just  as  bitter  weather  every  winter  of 
their  lives  back  in  New  England.  There,  when  you  had 
trudged  for  weeks  on  weeks  beneath  clouds  like  gray  sod- 
den blankets  in  a  sky  like  gray  iron,  some  freezing  starless 
night  would  come  a  sleet  storm.  Then  you  would  waken  to 
white  magic,  to  sunlight  that  blazed  on  a  world  all  blue  and 
rose  and  emerald,  fir-trees  that  stood  like  warriors  in  dia- 
mond mail,  and  meadows  that  rolled  away  at  your  feet,  a 
sea  of  glass,  mingled  with  fire.  All  the  hills  unrolled  a 
jeweled  script,  the  pages  of  a  mighty  book:  the  pines  wrote 
out  their  immemorial  creed  in  black,  unfaltering  charac- 
ters upon  those  pages.  Below  a  fair  illumined  margin,  you 
caught  the  glitter  of  the  frozen  brook.  And  over  all  lay 
light,  the  dear  and  lovely  light,  the  light  of  a  deathless 
wonder  that  could  lift  up  your  heart  and  carry  you  as  on 
wings  through  the  black  days  and  weeks  to  come.  The 
light  that  was  a  promise  and  a  covenant,  a  surety  for  spring. 

But  here  only  the  gloom,  the  cold,  the  crying  wind,  the 
snow  that  shut  you  as  into  impassable  walls. 

In  the  darkness  that  comes  before  the  dawn,  Mercy 
would  waken.  She  didn't  jump  out  of  bed  at  once.  It  took 
a  minute  or  so  to  screw  up  her  courage.  Then  she  sprang  out 
and  ran  to  the  fireplace,  and  jammed  in  armsful  of  cobs 
and  splinters  and  chunks  of  fat  pine.  Then  she  fled  back  to 
bed  and  snuggled  against  Aunty,  as  if  Aunty  were  a  long 


THE    FATHER  173 

slim,  hot  soapstone,  until  the  splinters  flared  up  like  candles 
and  the  chunks  began  to  blaze.  Presently  she  hopped  out 
again  with  determination  and  built  the  kitchen  fire  and 
put  on  the  kettle.  Of  course  that  was  Twonnet's  work,  but 
somehow  Twonnet  was  never  up  on  time,  and  Mercy  knew 
she'd  freeze  to  death  if  she  ran  out  to  the  tepee  and  tried 
to  wake  her. 

The  Captain  would  have  crept  willingly  from  his  snug 
little  lean-to,  but  she  hated  to  let  him  build  fires  because 
he  was  so  trembly  and  uncertain,  and  Jo  Vanny  was  still  so 
lame.  And  the  little  boys  needed  to  get  their  sleep  out. 

Next  she  dressed  in  a  jiffy  and  put  on  the  coffee  and  the 
bacon  and  called  the  little  boys.  Taught  by  experience,  she 
kept  on  calling  till  the  thud  of  feet  and  a  drowsy  whimper 
assured  her  that  one  of  them  was  beginning  to  wake  up. 
That  meant  the  whole-hearted  awaking  of  the  other  two. 

Then  she  took  a  pitcher  of  hot  water  to  Father.  Probably 
Father  had  worked  half  the  night  on  the  articles  he  was 
writing  for  Mr.  Greeley's  paper.  Mr.  Greeley's  payments 
were  moderate  but  always  Providential.  Father  would  pull 
her  bronze-gilt  braids  and  wonder  impatiently  why  she 
couldn't  send  Twonnet  and  save  herself  so  many  steps, 
but  he  liked  all  her  small  services,  she  knew  that.  Father 
usually  liked  everything  she  did  for  him.  Then  the  in- 
variable scramble  to  get  everything  on  the  table  at  once,  and 
all  smoking  hot,  too. 

Right  after  breakfast  came  morning  prayers,  with 
Thomas  kneeling  at  her  side  with  a  face  like  a  seraph, 
and  pinching  Seth  in  unshielded  portions  meanwhile.  Then 
a  scramble  to  get  the  boys  ready  for  school  in  time  to  ride 
with  Father.  For  Thomas  had  lost  his  spandy  new  mittens, 
and  Donny  had  scuffed  a  hole  in  one  of  Mr.  Lincoln's 
elegant  Christmas  gum  boots,  and  the  school-children  had 
teased  Seth  to  fury  about  his  unruly  cow-lick,  so  at  the  very 


174  THE    FATHER 

last  minute,  Mercy  had  to  run  for  the  big  bottle  of  sweet- 
oil  and  plaster  that  cow-lick  down  flat.  Of  course  it  bravely 
rose  erect  the  minute  Seth's  cap  came  off. 

"Seth,  stop  wriggling Will  you  hold  still ! " 

"Ow,  ouch!  You  pull  like  sixty!  Oo,  that  oil  is  dribbling 
down  my  ears!  And  here  I  washed  my  neck  this  very 
morning!  If  you  aren't  careful  I'll  have  to  go  out  to  the 
wash-bench  and  scrub  it  all  over  again!" 

"Calamity!"  This  from  Father,  dryly.  "Travel  now, 
youngsters.  I  give  you  one  more  minute.  Thomas  Stafford, 
go  wash  your  hands.  Do  you  hear  me?  Washed  them  al- 
ready? H'm.  Look  at  the  water  in  that  basin!  Clear  as 
crystal!  Move,  now." 

Then  after  they  were  gone  the  day  piled  up,  piled  up, 
no  matter  how  hard  she  tried.  Milking,  with  the  Captain 
determined  to  help.  She  was  lucky  if  he  didn't  spill  a  whole 
pailful.  Baking,  for  somehow  or  other  she  had  to  bake 
every  day.  Six  grown-ups  and  three  small  boys  can  work 
havoc  even  in  a  well-stocked  pantry.  Father  and  the  boys 
took  their  lunch-pails,  so  she  need  cook  a  hot  noon  meal 
for  only  five  people.  But  even  that  took  some  time,  and 
Aunty  was  too  rheumatic  to  help  much.  Then  came  an 
hour  or  more  of  struggle  with  Twonnet.  Twonnet  had 
flatly  declined  to  go  to  school  and  take  her  sadly  rightful 
place  with  the  primary  class.  So  Mercy  was  teaching  her  to 
add  and  subtract  and  to  read  about  the  Rat  and  the  Cat  in 
Thomas's  discarded  primer.  Which  was,  as  Mr.  Lincoln 
put  it,  a  land-office  job. 

Then  before  you'd  believe  it  the  wan  and  frozen  sun 
had  sunk  behind  gray  cloud  banks,  and  the  water-pails 
were  all  empty,  and  Jo  Vanny  had  forgotten  to  split  any 
kindling,  and  Twonnet  had  slipped  away  to  her  tepee.  So 
Mercy  must  slide  across  the  gliddery  crusted  snow  and  re- 
mind her.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  chop  it  herself,  but 


THE    FATHER  175 

Father  had  insisted  that  Twonnet  must  do  her  share.  Then 
in  clamored  the  little  boys,  an  army  with  banners,  and 
empty  to  the  soles  of  their  copper-toed  shoes.  A  scramble 
to  get  supper.  After  supper  she  read  and  dutifully  admired 
Father's  new  article  on  "Kansas:  A  Nation's  Glory  or  a 
Nation's  Shame,"  for  the  Atlantic  World.  She  heard  'Don- 
iram's  spelling,  she  helped  Seth  with  his  arithmetic,  she 
hammered  it  into  Thomas's  head  that  there  were  twenty- 
eight  states  and  twenty  territories,  and  the  District  of 
Columbia,  and  No,  a  territory  was  not  a  wild  animal,  it 
was  a  piece  of  land.  How  big?  W-well,  different  sizes. 
Did  it  have  wolves  and  bears  and  rattlesnakes  and  lions  on 
it?  My  goodness,  how  should  I  know?  Learn  your  lesson, 
and  don't  ask  so  many  questions.  Then  'Doniram  brought 
nuts  and  apples  from  the  cellar,  and  Seth  and  Thomas 
wrassled  over  the  biggest  apple.  Thereupon  Father  sternly 
summoned  them  all  to  evening  prayers,  and  then  Thomas 
choked  alarmingly  on  a  hazel-nut,  and  Father  had  to 
desert  Jeremiah  and  stand  Thomas  on  his  head  and  pound 
him  on  the  back. 

Then  Father  covered  the  fires,  and  Mercy  set  her  bread 
for  to-morrow.  And  then  the  heavenly  still  abyss  of  sleep. 
And  to-morrow  was  another  day. 

January  crept  on  leaden  feet.  February  came  on  the 
wings  of  fearful  cold  that  froze  the  milk  before  she 
could  carry  it  indoors,  that  even  drove  Twonnet  from  her 
tepee  o'  nights  to  a  blanket  before  the  fireplace.  Then,  be- 
fore her  astonished  eyes,  that  numbing  cold  had  flown  and 
February  lay  on  the  mounded  snow,  all  pale  sunlight  and 
folded  amethyst  shadows.  And  March  shouldered  in  with 
angry,  screaming  winds  and  sleet  that  burnt  her  cheeks 
and  sheathed  the  roads  with  pebbles  of  ice  that  looked  ex- 
actly like  fever'n'ager  pills,  so  Thomas  observed.  But 
March  was  only  a  braggart  and  a  boaster.  For  in  a  week 


176  THE    FATHER 

the  sparkling  frozen  marsh  was  a  sheet  of  sparkling  water, 
and  Seth  and  Thomas  came  to  blows  over  which  one  had 
seen  the  robin  first,  and  the  Captain,  red  spots  of  eager- 
ness on  his  parchmenty  old  cheeks,  had  coaxed  Father  to 
buy  a  new  cherry-red  plow,  with  a  sticky  gold  stripe  down 
the  handle.  The  Captain  was  set  on  doing  the  plowing 
himself,  but  his  unsteady  old  hands  couldn't  guide  the 
horses,  his  trembly  knees  doubled  up  with  every  step. 

"It  isn't  me  that's  playing  out,  it's  the  plow  that's  so 
onery,"  he  explained.  He  looked  up  at  Father,  beseeching, 
like  a  frightened  old  baby. 

"Of  course  it's  the  plow.  I  couldn't  manage  it  myself," 
Father  lied  gently.  Aunty  sent  the  Captain  to  bed  with  a 
mustard  plaster  and  a  hot  brick. 

When  Father  and  the  boys  were  safely  away,  Mercy 
made  a  fine  start.  But  her  small  hands  could  not  take  a 
good  grip,  and  her  slender  back  set  up  a  rebellious  ache. 
Soon  Aunty  caught  sight  of  her,  and  descended  on  her  with 
violence. 

"Mercy  Rose  Stafford!  I  am  ashamed  of  you!  Drop  that 
plow.  This  minute.  I'd  rather  run  it  myself " 

At  that  moment  Twonnet  hove  in  sight.  She  had  romped 
down  to  the  schoolhouse  with  the  little  boys.  All  her  an- 
cestral hatred  of  the  plow  flared  awake  in  her  darkening 
eyes.  But  then  she  leaped  to  Mercy's  side.  She  snatched  the 
plow  from  Mercy's  hands  and  like  a  furious  Ceres  she  set 
to  work  without  one  word. 

When  Father  came  home  to  supper  he  gaped  at  the  wide 
strip  of  black,  rich  furrows.  Twonnet  sat  moveless,  sullen, 
under  his  quick,  kind  praise.  But  after  supper  in  the  frosty 
early  starlight  she  crept  out  to  plow  again.  Under  her 
feet  rolled  another  long  black  string  of  woven  roots  and 
soil.  As  she  plowed  she  sang  under  her  breath  a  queer  old 


THE    FATHER  177 

troll  of  a  tune.  Nobody  had  ever  heard  Twonnet  sing 
before.  Perhaps  the  spring  had  found  a  key  to  Twonnet, 
too. 

Prisoned  by  that  cold,  those  snow-blocked  roads,  it  would 
seem  that  winter  must  spell  endless  dreariness.  But  though 
they  might  be  isolated  for  weeks,  time  fled  too  swiftly. 
Whenever  the  roads  were  broken  there  were  spelling 
matches  and  singing-school  at  the  schoolhouse.  There  were 
candy  pulls  at  the  Isaiah  Brookers'  with  their  houseful  of 
youngsters,  only  two  miles  away.  Once  in  a  long  time 
came  a  sleighing  party,  although  Aunty  frowned  on  these 
as  tending  towards  frivolity.  Best  of  all,  there  was  Mr. 
Lincoln.  Not  even  the  harshest  weather  could  keep  him 
away.  The  rougher  the  storm,  the  more  certain  was  he  to 
appear. 

He  would  come  in  shivering,  blowing  on  his  huge  half- 
frozen  hands,  his  great  gray  shawl  flapping  from  his  enor- 
mous shoulders,  his  lean  face  ground  to  the  bone  by  cut- 
ting sleet,  a  great,  gaunt,  perishing  scarecrow.  He  would 
make  his  gentle,  awkward  compliments  to  Aunty  and  ruffle 
the  little  boys'  silky  heads,  then  settle  down,  one  joint  at  a 
time,  before  the  hearth-fire  and  bask  in  that  deep  glowing 
heat.  There  he  would  rest,  tired  soul  and  body,  hardly 
speaking,  like  a  creature  whose  contentment  is  too  deep  for 
words.  There  was  something  piteous  in  his  humble,  grate- 
ful contentment  as  he  stared  around  the  warm,  bright, 
friendly  room.  Grateful  as  if  he,  always  so  lonely,  so  for- 
lorn, could  never  quite  believe  in  this  comfort,  this  happy, 
every-day  affection  that  reached  out  to  him  so  eagerly,  that 
made  him  so  generously  its  own.  This  New  England  home, 
so  plain,  so  bare,  so  rich  with  proud,  loyal  love,  opened  its 
doors  upon  him  like  a  new,  gentle,  compassionate  world. 

"Seems  to  me  this  is  the  one  place  on  earth  where  I  ever 
get  honest-to-goodness  warm.  Warm  clear  through." 


178  THE    FATHER 

"If  you're  cold,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I'll  go  fetch  my  red 
blanket." 

"I  don't  need  it,  Seth.  It  isn't  fires  and  blankets,  it's 
you  folks,  I  reckon,  that  melt  the  frost  out  of  my  bones." 
He  leaned  back  in  the  big  splint  rocker,  he  sighed  as  from 
measureless  depths  of  comfort.  "When  I  was  along  fryin' 
size,  like  you,  we  never  did  get  enough  fire  to  keep  warm. 
First  memory  I've  got  is  of  chopping  up  pine  splinters  with 
ma's  chopping  knife.  They  stuck  an  ax  into  my  hands 
quick's  I  could  carry  it  without  tipping  over. — Reckon  my 
last  memory  will  be  chopping  splinters,  too." 

"Didn't  you  have  stoves,  Mr.  Lincoln?  And  a  nice 
warm  house  like  ours?" 

"Not  exactly.  First  winter  we  lived  in  Indiana  we  had 
an  open- face  camp.  Know  what  that  is?  It's  a  log  cabin 
with  no  south  wall  to  it  except  a  fireplace,  and  it's  built  a 
lot  like  a  mud-dauber's  nest.  All  thatched  on  top  with  little 
sticks  and  brush,  and  the  chinks  catted — packed  with  clay 
that's  mixed  with  straw.  If  you've  got  a  good  tight  cabin, 
and  piles  on  piles  of  fuel  ready;  hardwood  back-logs,  and 
chunks  of  dry  hickory,  and  pine  branches,  to  flare  up  in  a 
rush;  if  you've  got  good  solid  bunks  built  against  the  walls, 
and  feather  beds  shoulder-high  and  plenty  of  bearskins, 
why  you  can  make  out  to  live  and  stand  even  a  bitter  win- 
ter. 'Specially  if  there's  lots  of  snow  that  you  can  bank 
up  around  the  cabin.  But  you've  got  to  kind  of  coil  your- 
self up,  'specially  a  person  that's  built  in  sections  like  me. 
And  from  November  to  April,  you  never  get  warm  enough 
to  go  slack.  When  the  frost  let  go  we  all  had  to  sit  in  the 
sun  and  thaw  out  like  so  many  glass  snakes,  else  we'd  crack 
off  a  section  or  so." 

"But  it  wasn't  winter  all  the  time." 

"I'd  say  not.  My,  Adoniram,  you  boys  have  a  dull  time 
of  it  nowadays  compared  to  us.  Soon's  I  could  carry  a  gun, 


THE    FATHER  179 

my  dad  took  me  hunting  with  him.  I've  brought  down  wild 
turkey  and  deer  and  even  a  black  bear  when  I  was  so 
little  the  gun  would  kick  me  flat  every  shot.  One  time  I 
killed  a  bear  that  measured  mighty  nigh  as  big  as  a  cow. 
He  clawed  me  some,  but  I  got  him." 

A  sigh  of  anguished  envy  from  the  little  boys. 

"Skinned  him  myself,  and  cured  the  skin  for  my  step-ma 
for  a  foot-blanket,  nights.  She  was  so  pleased  she  packed 
up  what  eggs  and  butter  she  dared  take,  and  walked  seven 
miles  to  the  settlement  and  swapped  her  stuff  for  a  bag  of 
raisins  for  me  and  a  stick  of  peppermint  candy.  First  time 
in  my  life  I'd  tasted  candy.  Yes,  we  had  bee  sweetnin'  and 
tree  sweetnin',  and  times  when  we  were  real  rich,  a  jug  of 
molasses.  But  that  candy!  I  can  see  it  yet.  It  was  red  and 
white,  barber-pole — I  looked  at  it  ten  minutes  or  so  before 
I  dared  even  take  a  lick.  Then  I  hollered  to  Sarah,  my 
sister.  She  came  in  and  she  looked  till  her  eyes  popped. 
Then  I  says,  You  get  the  first  lick,  and  after  that  we  took 
lick  about.  There's  a  place  in  the  Bible  that  tells  about  the 
Heavenly  gates. — Always  seems,  when  I  shut  my  eyes 
I  can  see  'em  straight  and  clear.  But  they  aren't  pearl,  mind 
that.  They're  barber-pole  peppermint. 

"My  step-ma  was  a  mighty  smart  woman.  Thrifty,  too. 
She  worked  from  sun-up  till  sun-down  every  day  of  her 
life.  But  she  always  found  time  for  her  garden.  Folks 
said  of  her,  she  was  the  growin'est  woman  they  ever  did 
see.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  garden,  maybe,  but  it  meant  a  lot 
to  her.  And  to  us.  Everything  she  touched  would  thrive 
for  her.  She  planted  every  kind  of  yarb  she  could  find, 
and  every  kind  of  shrub.  Sassafras,  poke-berry,  camomile, 
juniper — couldn't  tell  you  the  names  of  all  of  'em.  When- 
ever we  moved,  she'd  lug  along  seeds  and  cuttings.  We  had 
roses,  too,  and  spirea  and  laylock.  'Course  we  were  poor. 
Torn  down  poor.  But  whenever  new  settlers  came  along, 


180  THE    FATHER 

you  could  depend  on  my  ma  to  get  over  to  their  cabin  and 
take  them  something  for  welcome.  A  pat  of  butter,  say.  Or 
some  jerked  venison.  And  always  a  slip  from  one  of  her 
shrubs,  or  a  handful  of  garden  truck.  She'd  say  there  was 
nothing  that  would  cure  homesickness  so  quick  as  something 
you  can  plant  right  off  and  watch  it  grow. 

"But  mind  you,  she  was  canny,  too.  She'd  hang  around 
and  watch  to  see  if  they  were  the  kind  of  folks  that 
owned  books,  see?  Then  she'd  say,  real  politely:  T've  got 
a  boy  at  home  that's  plumb  cracked  over  books.  Maybe  it's 
so  you'd  let  him  take  a  peek  into  yours  some  day?'  And 
time  and  again  she'd  come  home  carryin'  maybe  one  book, 
maybe  three  or  four,  and  tickled  to  pieces.  For  a  long  while 
I  was  too  bashful  to  ask  for  myself.  But  my,  how  I  banked 
on  ma  asking  for  me! 

"It  was  ma's  doing  that  I  met  the  two  men  that  counted 
most  to  me,  most  out  of  all  the  folks  I  ever  knew,  those 
times.  One  was  an  old  broken-down  school  teacher  who 
had  settled  down  in  an  abandoned  cabin  right  up  the  hill 
from  Anderson's  Ferry.  I  was  working  on  the  ferry  then. 
He  lent  me  all  the  books  he  had.  I  could  tell  you  the  names 
of  every  one  and  'most  every  word  that  was  in  them — and 
nights  he  used  to  lie  there  on  his  torn  old  blanket  and  talk 
to  me.  And  when  he  talked  he  said  something,  mind  you 
that.  One  night  I  was  flattened  out  on  his  hearth  reading 
Plutarch's  Lives,  and  said  he,  £Abe,  what's  your  handle? 
Picked  it  out  yet?'  I  didn't  get  what  he  meant  right  away. 
'Abe,'  says  he,  'All  this  reading  you're  doing;  in  the  end, 
what  are  you  doing  it  for?'  And  I  said,  'Because  I  want  to 
read  every  book  in  the  world.  I  want  to  know  everything  I 
can  learn.' 

"  'Well,  all  right.  Good  books  are  good  tools,'  he  said. 
'But  every  good  tool  has  got  to  have  a  handle.  Look  at 
your  ax,  yonder.  Good  metal  and  sharp,  but  precious  little 


THE    FATHER  181 

good  it  is  if  you  haven't  got  a  handle  to  swing  it  with.' 
And  I  began  to  see  daylight,  and  I  said,  'You  mean,  when 
I've  got  my  head  stuffed  full  of  book-learning  how  am  I 
going  to  use  it?'  and  he  nodded.  And  he  was  right.  You 
listen  to  me,  boys.  The  man  who  gives  you  food,  who  shel- 
ters you  from  the  cold,  he's  a  good  friend  to  you.  But  the 
man  who  gives  you  a  handle  to  your  tools,  a  grip  on  what 
learning  you've  got,  a  handle  to  your  own  self — he's  the 
grandest  friend  you've  got  or  ever  will  have." 

This  was  far  past  those  three  yellow  heads. 

"What  is  your  handle,  Mr.  Lincoln?" 

That  melancholy  mischief  glimmered  on  his  face. 

"Right  now,  your  pa  is  trying  to  pry  the  handle  of  his 
own  supreme  ambition  into  my  grip.  Maybe  he'll  succeed. 
No  telling." 

"I'm  still  hoping  against  hope."  Mr.  Stafford  granted 
him  a  grim  chuckle.  Between  the  two  men  flashed  a  glint 
of  understanding,  of  exasperated  affection,  of  shrewd 
mirthful  protest;  yet  that  protest  held  a  queer  daunted 
look,  as  if  Mr.  Lincoln  were  abashed,  yet  not  willing  to 
admit  it,  not  even  to  his  own  mind. 

"Watch  me.  I'll  make  a  topnotch  Abolitionist  out  of 
you  yet." 

Suddenly  Mr.  Lincoln's  mood  swerved,  darkened. 

"Why  in  the  Sam  Hill  are  you  so  head-set  on  making  an 
anti-slavery  worker  out  of  me?  Even  if  you  did  convince 
me,  even  if  you  did  set  me  to  work,  I'd  be  precious  little 
use.  For  I'm  nobody.  I'm  a  middle-aged  back-woods  law- 
yer and  a  failure  at  that.  Yes,  I  did  go  to  Congress — once. 
But  the  only  piece  of  legislation  I  tried  to  put  through  was 
my  bill  to  destroy  slavery  in  the  District  of  Columbia, 
and  they  threw  that  out.  And  now  I'm  out  of  politics,  out 
of  everything.  I'm  as  good  as  dead.  I've  got  to  keep  on 
with  the  law,  for  I've  got  a  family  to  support.  But  I'm 


182  THE    FATHER 

nothing  but  a  pack-mule.  A  drudge.  No  almighty  hopes  left 
in  me " 

His  big  body  slumped.  His  head  dropped  into  his  hands. 
The  gesture  of  his  puzzled,  tired  soul. 

"But  I  do  want  you.  I've  got  to  have  you.  As  to  being 
a  failure,  nonsense !  No  man  is  a  failure  till  he  lets  go.  And 
you're  not  the  kind  that  lets  go.  Never." 

"A  fellow  can't  help  distrusting  himself." 

"Not  distrusting  himself  as  much  as  his  motives." 

This  was  a  home  thrust. 

"  'Still  harping  on  my  daughter.'  "  Lincoln  flinched, 
grinned.  "There's  one  advantage  about  distrust. — Yes,  to 
be  sure,  the  fellow  who  hasn't  sufficient  faith  in  himself  can 
never  get  anywhere.  I've  been  up  to  my  neck  in  that  slew 
a  good  many  times  over.  But  the  bull-headed  fellow  who 
is  so  arrogantly  certain  of  himself  is  even  less  use.  He  not 
only  drives  himself  into  the  ditch  of  his  blunders,  he  drags 
others  in  with  him." 

"W-well.  Perhaps." 

"Not  perhaps.  Absolutely.  But  I'll  admit  that  if  you 
feel  a  failure  one  day,  why  the  next  day  you've  got  to 
make  up  your  mind  that  you're  the  Lord's  Anointed.  No 
matter  how  much  evidence  stands  against  that."  There  was 
a  silence. 

"Back  of  all  our  uncertainties,  our  miseries,  are  two 
causes,  I  reckon.  For  one  thing,  everybody's  lonesome.  No 
escaping  that.  We're  born  lonely.  We  die  as  lonely  as  if 
we  stood  on  different  spheres.  The  other  thing  is,  we  spend 
our  lives  hunting  for  something  that  we  never  find.  Hunt- 
ing— yet  half  the  time  we  don't  know  what  we're  hunting 
for. 

"A  while  back  I  went  to  a  lecture  in  St.  Louis  to  hear 
that  old  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Emerson.  Queer  looking  fel- 
low, so  tall,  and  as  lean  as  a  cornstalk;  a  lean  dry  head,  too. 


THE    FATHER  183 

Looks  all  bone.  Not  enough  meat  on  those  bones  to  bait  a 
mouse-trap.  But  there  was  something  inside  that  bone,  you 
can  bet  on  that.  He  was  talking  about  Abolition,  about  the 
hopes  and  plans  and  schemes  that  we  pull  and  haul  and 
struggle  for,  all  our  lives  long.  I'd  driven  down  from 
Grafton  and  I  was  dog-tired  to  start  with,  and  by  the  time 
I'd  taken  that  long  drive  and  pried  my  cutter  out  of  drifts 
a  dozen  times  or  so  I  was  dead  with  sleep.  But  I  got  the 
gist  of  what  he  said.  All  these  hopes  and  aims  and  suc- 
cesses, says  he,  are  all  very  well.  And  to  some  men,  material 
success  is  all  they  know  how  to  want.  But  all  the  riches  in 
the  world,  all  the  fame,  can  not  for  long  content — 'the 
awful  Soul  that  dwells  in  clay.'  That  phrase  stuck  in  my 
mind.  It's  stuck  there  ever  since.  It  tells  you  so  much.  It 
answers  all  your  nagging,  pestering  questions.  It  makes  you 
see  why  all  your  hard  work,  all  your  scheming,  will  stand 
for  nothing  when  you  close  up  your  books. — 'The  awful 
Soul  that  dwells  in  clay '  " 

"Nothing  counts,"  said  Father  gently,  "except  the  search 
that  we  all  make.  And  whether  we  find  that  for  which  we 
search." 

"Whether  we've  wrestled  with  our  Angel — and  thrown 
him." 

Mr.  Lincoln  stared  into  the  fire.  Then  up  spoke  Thomas. 

"I  never  did  think  it  was  so  very  polite  of  that  Angel, 
to  come  and  make  Jacob  wrassle  with  him  just  when  Jacob 
was  all  tired  out." 

"Thomas!"  Aunty  paled  with  horror. 

But  Mr.  Lincoln  took  him  up. 

"It's  mostly  when  we  are  all  tired  out  that  we  have  to 
'wrassle'  the  hardest,  Thomas." 

And  on  his  face  lay  the  gray  weariness  of  one  who 
has  wrestled  with  his  angel,  long  years,  and  knows  the 
conflict  still  uncertain. 


184  THE    FATHER 

Other  days  he  would  come  clattering  in  a  different  crea- 
ture, his  gaunt  face  wrinkled  with  rare  fun.  He  would 
struggle  out  of  his  shawl  and  his  buffalo  greatcoat,  and 
career  after  the  little  boys  like  a  blood-sweating  behemoth, 
to  their  screaming  delight.  Then  he  would  sink  to  the  floor, 
and  let  the  three  youngsters  pommel  him  till  he  must  howl 
for  mercy. 

"Let  up,  boys!  Here,  no  gouging!  No  ear-chewing, 
either.  Quit  that,  Seth.  You  might  be  one  of  the  gang  that 
jumped  my  flat-boat  'way  back  in  '28." 

"Jumped  your  flat-boat!  Oh,  were  they  bandits?  Were 
they  Indians?" 

"They  were  half  men  and  half  alligator."  This  with 
an  apprehensive  eye  on  Aunty.  "We  were  floating  our  boat 
down  to  New  Orleans  to  sell  our  load  of  stuff  there.  Hides 
and  beeswax  and  cloth  my  ma  and  the  other  women-folks 
had  woven,  and  hogsheads  of  sorghum.  We  tied  up  along- 
shore, nights.  And  one  night  these  alligator-men  came  slam 
down  on  us " 

"Were  they  real  'gators?  Honest,  now?" 

"If  you'd  been  there  you'd  have  seen.  My  memory's 
failing,  so  I  can't  be  sure.  Anyhow,  down  they  came 
lickety  split,  seven  to  our  two.  And  they  fought  like  lions 
and  tigers  and  'gators  all  at  once.  But  we  did  some  fighting 
ourselves.  My  mate  got  a  stranglehold  on  two  of  'em  and 
threw  them  overboard,  and  I  grabbed  three  and  slung  them 
ashore  right  into  the  deepest  part  of  the  marsh.  Then  the 
other  two  kind  of  stopped.  To  get  their  bearings,  I  reckon. 
And  while  they  were  sorting  themselves  out  we  cut  the 
cable  and  off  we  put.  We  weren't  so  leisurely  either.  I  had 
two  ugly  cuts  on  my  head  and  a  couple  of  ribs  caved  in, 
and  my  partner  had  a  broken  arm  and  a  few  teeth  knocked 
out " 


THE    FATHER  185 

"Oh,  oh,  I  do  wish  I'd  been  there!" 

At  which  Aunty  exploded. 

"Fine  ideas  to  put  into  their  heads!  And  they  spoiling 
for  a  fight  every  day  as  'tis!" 

Mr.  Lincoln  drooped.  You  might  almost  say  he  moulted. 
Every  triumphant  feather  of  him  fell  to  half-mast. 

"Yes'm.  I  reckon  that's  so.  Well.  The  upshot  was  we 
went  on  down  to  New  Orleans  feeling  some  set  up,  be- 
cause we'd  chased  off  the  alligator  men  seven  to  two  and 
saved  our  cargo.  We  sold  that  cargo,  hide  and  hair,  at  the 
great  City  market.  It  was  warm  and  pleasant  down  there, 
so  we  slept  out  on  the  levee  nights,  with  our  money  belts 
strapped  tight  and  an  armful  of  sugar-cane  handy.  My, 
nothing  ever  tasted  finer  than  that  sugar-cane.  Not  even 
my  peppermint-stick.  'Peared  like  I'd  never  get  enough 
of  it. 

"Coming  up-river  we  got  us  a  free  ride  on  a  grand 
packet.  That  is  it  was  free,  only  we  worked  our  passage. 
My,  that  packet,  all  white  and  grand  and  graceful  like  a 
swan,  and  the  fiddlers  playing  from  morning  till  night,  and 
the  officers  all  in  their  fine  uniforms,  and  the  ladies  in 
flounces  and  laces  and  great  flourishing  plumed  bonnets 
and  little  slim  white  slippers  like  chips  off  the  new  moon! 

"And  coming  up-river,  seems  as  if  there's  not  a  yard  of 
that  shore  but  has  its  story.  Hardly  five  miles  up  from 
Vicksburg  was  Hilton's  Cave.  The  mate  pointed  it  out  to 
me  himself.  Hilton's  gang  of  river  pirates  used  to  hide 
their  booty  there.  Back  in  those  good  old  days  they'd  all  go 
out  together  and  loot  the  little  towns,  or  maybe  rush  down 
on  a  steamer  that  was  tied  up  for  a  night  and  open  fire  on 
her,  then  strip  the  purser's  office  and  clean  out  the  passen- 
gers. There  was  always  a  bunch  of  gamblers  aboard,  so  that 
was  a  paying  job.  No,  Thomas,  no  use  going  down  there 


186  THE    FATHER 

now  to  pick  up  a  few  sacks  of  double-eagles  and  a  bunch 
of  diamonds.  That  cave  has  been  scraped  with  a  fine-tooth 
comb  over  and  over. 

"Then  there's  Ghost  City.  It's  an  abandoned  settlement 
right  below  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio.  When  it  was  running 
full  steam  it  must  have  had  a  couple  of  hundred  citizens, 
anyway.  But  a  pirate  crowd  swooped  down  early  one  spring 
afternoon  and  shot  down  the  whole  city,  men,  women  and 
children,  and  stripped  the  place.  For  all  the  world  like  the 
way  the  Goths  used  to  strip  a  helpless  Roman  city.  Left 
not  a  wall  standing,  not  a  soul  alive.  They  tell  it  that  for 
one  night  in  the  year,  St.  John's  Eve,  the  city  rises  from 
its  ashes,  and  goes  about  its  business  just  as  it  always  used 
to  do.  The  laborers  take  up  their  tools,  the  fishermen  go  to 
the  river  with  their  nets,  you  can  see  the  farm  carts  coming 
in  to  market.  Only  you  never  hear  hoof  beats,  nor  the  sound 
of  hammers,  nor  a  human  voice.  With  the  first  cock-crow 
they  all  melt  away,  and  the  city's  walls  and  roofs  melt  with 
them. 

"Then  when  you  come  to  the  river  herself  she's  a  very 
highroad  of  romance.  Take  1833,  the  year  of  the  great 
plague,  and  the  story  of  The  Creole  Belle.  She  started  up- 
river  on  September  twentieth,  her  flags  flying,  her  band 
playing,  her  decks  jammed  with  a  grand,  gay  crowd.  There 
was  the  captain,  a  great  dandy  in  his  brass-buttoned  blue 
coat  and  his  tight  doeskin  breeches  and  his  tall  shiny  hat 
and  his  knee-high  kidskin  boots  as  fine  as  silk;  the  pas- 
sengers, rich  planters  in  ruffled  shirts  and  velvet  waistcoats, 
their  body-servants  following  at  heel;  the  gamblers,  with 
their  high  stocks  and  their  glittering  canes,  the  diamonds 
and  emeralds  clustered  on  their  smooth,  slippery  fingers; 
the  fine,  sweet,  gracious  ladies;  all  the  brightest,  gayest 
world  afloat  in  that  late  warm  summer.  But  suddenly,  be- 
fore they'd  gone  halfway  up-stream,  a  queer  rumor  crept 


THE    FATHER  187 

about.  Two  of  the  crew  had  died  within  an  hour  of  each 
other.  Died,  and  their  bodies  carried  ashore  by  night  and 
thrown  into  a  swamp.  .  .  .  The  steamer  had  not  even 
made  landing  at  a  settlement  so  they  could  have  Christian 
burial.  The  Fever.  .  .  . 

"Then  in  a  breath  came  panic.  The  passengers  went 
into  a  frenzy.  They  begged  to  be  put  ashore,  anywhere, 
anyhow.  The  captain  refused.  You  can  mighty  near  see  it, 
can't  you?"  Lincoln's  eyes  grew  dark.  "Here  stands  the 
captain,  so  haughty  and  fine,  in  his  grand  blue  coat  and 
his  brass  buttons  and  his  face  like  death.  Standing  there, 
both  guns  in  his  hands,  with  the  mate  so  tall  and  lowering 
at  his  elbow.  Together  they'd  hold  back  that  crazy,  raging 
crowd 

"The  mate,  they  say,  was  along  seventeen  or  so,  just  a 
big  tow-headed  boy.  But  he  was  game  all  right.  He'd  never 
seen  the  face  of  fear.  He  laughed  in  the  passengers'  faces 
when  they  raved  at  him  and  struck  him  and  tried  to  fight 
their  way  ashore.  'Much  good  that  would  do  you,'  he  jeered 
at  them.  'You'd  be  shot  down  in  your  tracks  before  you'd 
get  a  mile.'  But  the  passengers  were  madmen  every  one. 
They  went  down  on  their  knees,  they  begged  and  whined 
and  prayed,  they  tore  off  their  gold  belts  and  threw  them 
at  the  captain's  feet.  The  women  snatched  off  their  jewelry, 
and  crammed  it  into  his  hands.  But  neither  man  gave  way. 

"Then  a  handful  of  'em  seized  a  yawl,  and  rowed  ashore 
right  close  to  a  little  town.  The  captain  and  the  mate 
ordered  them  back.  When  they  refused  to  come  the  mate 
fired  on  them,  and  killed  two.  Well.  I  reckon  the  rest  of 
the  yawl-load  reached  the  shore  alive.  But — the  word  went 
flying  ahead  up-river.  That  the  ship  was  alive  with  yellow 
fever,  that  she  was  bringing  Black  Jack  upstream  with 
her.  A  plague-ship.  A  floating  charnel-house.   .  .   . 

"So,  when  she  swung  around  the  bend,  and  headed  into 


188  THE    FATHER 

the  next  landing,  they  found  the  sheriff  and  an  armed 
posse  waiting  for  them,  ready  to  shoot  down  the  first  man 
that  tried  to  land.  So  they  didn't  dare  so  much  as  to  let 
down  their  gang-plank.  The  boat  swings  back  into  mid- 
channel.  Upstream  she  goes,  fast  as  the  firemen  could  rush 
coal  into  her.  But  the  word  of  her  coming  went  faster 
still. 

"Again  and  again  she  tried  to  make  a  landing.  But  even 
when  she  tried  by  night  to  head  into  the  willows  where 
there  was  no  town,  up  from  the  thickets  would  rise  armed 
men  and  drive  her  negroes  back  to  the  boat.  No  chance. 
No  hope. 

"All  the  time  passengers  and  crew  were  dying  like  flies. 
The  Creole  Belle  went  on  and  on.  She  passed  Memphis 
with  barely  half  her  crew  alive.  She  pushed  on,  a  doomed 
thing,  trying  to  force  her  way  out  of  that  mesh  of  terror. 
No  chance. 

"The  fag-end  of  the  crew  couldn't  handle  her  alone. 
So  the  captain  pressed  the  passengers  into  service.  He 
must  have  had  a  grim  sense  of  humor,  that  captain.  He 
picked  on  Colonel  Mountford,  the  most  eminent  judge  in 
all  Louisiana,  a  pompous  old  tom-turkey  he  was,  to  be  the 
oiler.  He  ordered  a  half-dozen  of  the  brightest  ornaments 
of  the  Mississippi  bar  to  the  stoke-hole.  He  sent  the  ladies 
to  be  nurses.  God  knows  they  were  needed,  for  the  fever 
swept  above-decks  like  a  prairie  fire. 

"And  the  boat  went  on.  On  up-river,  food  enough 
aboard,  fuel  enough.  Money  enough  aboard  the  Creole 
Belle  to  buy  up  the  Mississippi  basin.  But  not  all  that  wealth 
could  buy  a  foothold  ashore. 

"The  mate  lived  through  that  voyage  to  tell  the  story. 
His  youth  saved  him.  And  his  pluck.  And  the  way  he  could 
laugh.  Somehow  the  people  who  can  laugh  at  death  are 
usually  the  ones  who  win  out.  I  reckon  Death  sort  of  sneaks 


THE    FATHER  189 

off  when  he's  laughed  at.  But  that  tow-head  of  his  was 
gray  before  the  year  was  out. 

"Finally  they  caught  on  a  sandbar,  above  Cairo.  There 
were  just  eighteen  souls  left  alive,  now.  Eight  men  and 
ten  women.  Somehow  they  made  their  way  ashore  by  night, 
crept  for  miles  through  the  river-woods  and  escaped.  And 
there,  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  its  cargo  untouched, 
for  its  dead  still  lay  on  board,  hung  that  boat  of  death. 
The  country  folks  would  drive  down  to  the  Kentucky  shore, 
and  stare  at  it,  awestruck.  None  of  them  would  venture 
close  enough  to  snatch  at  the  high-piled  bales  of  cotton, 
the  barrels  of  sugar,  the  clothes  and  jewels  and  treasure, 
that  lay  aboard. 

"But  at  last  along  came  a  back  country  farmer,  a  stodgy 
fellow,  and  grinding  poor.  He  had  a  runt  of  a  farm  and 
a  troop  of  growing  boys,  and  one  beautiful  slip  of  a  girl, 
maybe  sixteen.  Back  east  his  wife's  folks  had  things  gen- 
teel, and  she  was  forever  nagging  him  because  he'd  never 
bought  her  a  stick  of  good  furniture.  Not  so  much  as  a 
chair  to  her  name.  She  taunted  him  day  and  night.  And 
she  was  always  dinging  it  into  him  that  this  young  daugh- 
ter hadn't  even  a  looking  glass  to  see  her  lovely  face. 

"So  he  slips  out  by  night,  and  drives  to  the  shore,  then 
sculls  across  to  the  boat.  They  tell  it  that  his  dog  wouldn't 
go  with  him.  That  when  the  creature  saw  he  was  steering 
towards  the  sandbar  he  jumped  out  whining  and  shivering 
and  swam  back  to  the  shore.  But  the  man  was  game.  He 
brought  his  skiff  alongside,  grabbed  up  his  pine-knot  and 
scrambled  aboard. 

"Can't  you  see  him,  picking  his  way  up  the  steps  of  the 
Creole  Belle?  He'd  be  kind  of  awkward,  you  know.  His 
feet  were  used  to  furrows,  and  he'd  find  it  tricky  footing 
to  make  his  way  on  those  narrow  polished  stairs,  then 
down   the   long   glittering   floor  of   the   grand   saloon.    It 


190  THE    FATHER 

wasn't  dark,  for  his  pine-knot  lit  up  the  great  crystal 
chandeliers  and  made  them  blaze  and  sparkle.  It  wasn't 
close  nor  damp.  For  the  stateroom  doors  were  all  standing 
open,  just  as  the  folks  had  left  them. — And  the  river  wind 
blew  through  and  shrilled  and  whistled.  I  don't  know.  I'd 
as  lieve  had  darkness  and  silence  if  it  was  me. 

"Well.  He  went  creeping  and  sliding  on  till  he  got 
to  the  end  of  the  great  gleaming  hall.  It  winds  up  aft,  not 
in  a  square,  but  in  a  great  swan-breasted  curve. 

"There  his  torch  lit  the  great  mirror,  swinging  in  its 
gilded  pillars.  I  reckon  that  mirror  had  held  many  a  curious 
picture  in  its  day.  The  flowing  sparkling  ladies,  the  swag- 
gering dandies,  the  blustering  old  captain Where  had 

all  their  sparkle  and  swagger  and  bluster  gone  to  now? 

"Well,  as  I  told  you,  that  farmer  had  grit.  Grit  clear 
through.  It  was  a  job  for  three  men,  not  one,  to  ship  that 
mirror  down  and  carry  it  the  endless  slippery  length  of  the 
cabin,  and  lower  it  into  his  skiff,  and  row  it  ashore.  But 
he  did  it.  By  bull  strength.  He  hauled  it  up  the  bank  and 
hoisted  it  into  his  wagon. 

"His  horses  were  as  dependable  as  daylight.  But  they 
gave  him  a  tough  time  right  then  all  right.  First  they 
tried  to  bolt;  when  he'd  finally  lashed  them  down  they 
kept  rearing  and  twisting,  and  tossing  their  heads,  their 
white  eyeballs  rolling.  Once  the  off  horse  got  a  square  look 
at  that  tall  shining  thing.  They  galloped  a  mile  or  so  then, 
before  he  could  rein  them  down  steady. 

"Finally  he  got  home.  And  his  daughter  was  wild  with 
delight,  and  that  made  him  forget.  But  nine  days  more,  and 
his  girl  lay  dead,  his  wife  and  the  boys  were  dying.  He 
died  himself,  for  the  fever  swept  through  that  house  like 
a  great  scythe  of  flame.  From  that  house  the  plague  swept 
the  country.  Not  a  cabin  but  one  lay  dead.  Nobody  has 
set  foot  inside  that  house  from  that  day  to  this." 


THE    FATHER  191 

"W-where  is  that  cabin?"  quavered  'Doniram. 

"Right  over  in  Cooper  Township.  Not  twenty  miles 
away." 

"Wish  I  could  see  it,"  sighed  Seth. 

"I'm  going  to  see  it  some  day."  This  was  Mercy,  under 
her  breath.  Her  cheeks  flared  scarlet,  her  eyes  were  wide 
with  wonder,  with  tragic  pity. 

"You'll  none  of  you  boys  live  to  see  it.  You'll  all  freeze 
to  death  before  spring,"  thus  Aunty,  Gorgon-stern,  "unless 
you  hiper  out  and  bring  in  some  wood.  Here  you  all  sit 
a-gopherin'  and  a-gogglin'  at  these  stories  while  the  fires 
go  out  right  under  your  noses!" 

"My  fault,  Aunty."  Mr.  Lincoln  picked  himself  up 
penitent.  "When  I  get  going,  it's  hard  to  pull  me  in.  Come 
along,  boys.  Let's  pile  up  plenty  of  wood  before  Father 
comes  home  and  ketches  us!" 

Times  like  this  he  would  reach  for  his  coat  and  go  and 
bring  up  a  great  heap  of  logs,  and  before  he  finished  he'd 
have  a  pile  of  firewood  big  enough  to  last  a  week.  After 
that  he  would  pump  all  the  waterpails  full,  and  go  out  and 
help  milk.  Presently  he  would  remember  that  he'd  brought 
a  haunch  of  venison  and  a  sack  of  meal,  "Got  to  pay  up 
just  part  of  the  board  I'm  always  sponging  off  you  folks." 

And  when  Father  came  home  in  the  bitter  dusk  all  his 
chores  would  be  done  and  he  and  Mr.  Lincoln  could  sit 
by  the  fire  and  wrangle  and  argue  to  heart's  content. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

AFTER  the  weather  had  moderated,  but  before  the 
great  rains  came  to  choke  the  roads  with  mire,  they 
spent  more  time  at  the  little  office  in  town.  Other  men 
dropped  in,  too,  to  gossip,  to  swap  stories,  to  argue.  Old 
Major  Hewitt,  frail  as  splintered  glass  but  still  peppery 
and  spry  at  ninety,  bundled  into  knitted  vests  and  nubys 
and  double  mittens  till  he  looked,  as  Seth  observed,  like  the 
worsted-work  cave  turned  inside  out,  would  totter  in, 
throw  off  his  innumerable  wrappings,  and  scold  shrilly  at 
every  new  thing  under  the  sun.  What  was  the  world  coming 
to,  hey?  Tell  me  that.  Here's  the  trustees  of  the  Lord's 
Barn  hev  up  and  give  permission  to  a  pianny,  set  right  down 
on  the  preacher's  platform.  Blasphemous.  Plumb  blasphe- 
mous. Say  it's  to  lead  the  singing?  Huh.  Tell  'em  to  use  a 
tuning  fork  and  shame  the  Devil.  Here's  another  man,  a 
mad  editor  down  East,  says  time's  coming  we'll  build  our 
houses  and  stores  out  of  steel  and  glass  'stead  of  wood  and 
plaster.  Just  let  the  fool  try  it.  Steel,  eh?  His  house  will 
be  struck  down  by  lightnin'  before  he  can  trice  up  his 
scaffolds.  Down  to  the  Corners,  they's  been  a  woman  come 
from  Boston  says  as  how  men  have  got  to  up  and  give 
wimmen- folks  the  vote.  Give  wimmen  the  vote,  hey!  Then 
set  out  an'  teach  the  hens  to  crow! 

But  nine  times  out  of  ten,  one  burning  question  held 
the  floor. 

"You  don't  grasp  my  point  of  view,  Mr.  Stafford.  For 
the  sake  of  argument,  we  will  admit  that  slavery  is  wrong. 
Morally,  socially,  politically  wrong.  But  you  look  on  an 
institution  that  is  embedded  in  the  life  of  this  nation,  and 


THE    FATHER  193 

imagine  that  you  can  destroy  it  with  your  words  and  your 
pamphlets  as  easily  as  Joshua  knocked  down  the  walls  of 
Jericho." 

"If  you'd  happened  to  read  that  chapter  with  more  than 
half  an  eye,  Mr.  Lincoln,  you'd  have  noticed  that  Joshua 
and  his  priests  and  their  trumpets  were  merely  a  symbol  of 
the  Almighty  Power  that  commanded  them." 

"W-well.  If  you  feel  sure  that  the  Almighty  has  picked 
on  you  as  a  second  Joshua " 

"As  far  as  my  limited  perceptions  would  indicate,  He 
has.  He  lays  that  obligation  on  every  thinking  man.  That's 
why  I  am  in  this  fight.  That's  why  I  mean  to  stay  in  it. 
That's  why  you  ought  to  be  in  it  yourself.  Heart  and  soul. 
Body,  bones  and  hymnbook,  too.  If  you  think  I  exaggerate 
the  situation,  go  down  to  New  Orleans,  and  take  one  look 
at  the  slave-market.  If  that  doesn't  sicken  you " 

So  the  battle  would  rage.  Until  finally  Mr.  Lincoln 
would  say: 

"Well.  Time  will  come  we'll  find  a  solution.  .  .  . 
School  out,  Thomas?  What  is  that  new  book?" 

"My  new  Reader."  Thomas  scrambled  on  Mr.  Lincoln's 
knee,  bursting  with  eager  pride. 

"You  haven't  written  in  it  yet?" 

"No,  sir.  What  shall  I  write?" 

"See  what  I  wrote  one  time.  In  my  schoolbook." 

Mr.  Lincoln  reached  a  long  arm  to  Father's  desk  and 
scrawled  a  couplet. 

"Abraham  Lincoln,  His  Book  and  Pen. 
He  will  be  Good But  God  Knows  When." 

"Why,  it  makes  rhyme!"  Thomas  bounced,  delighted. 

"Maybe  it  makes  more  than  rhyme.  Maybe  it's  a  proph- 
ecy." Mr.  Lincoln  rolled  a  melancholy  glimmer  at  Father. 
Father  tried  to  look  coldly  disapproving,  then  he  chuckled. 


194  THE    FATHER 

"I  only  hope  it  proves  a  prophecy.  Trot  home  now,  boys. 
Mercy  will  be  anxious." 

Out  on  the  echoing  board  walk,  Seth  summed  up  his 
opinion.  Seth  might  have  been  born  with  both  feet  in  the 
milkpail,  but  at  times  he  betrayed  a  surprising  insight. 

"Mr.  Lincoln  doesn't  like  it  because  Father  prints  those 
little  green  Nabolitionist  pamphlets  all  the  time.  But  he 
goes  right  on  turning  the  press  for  him  just  the  same." 

As  the  little  boys  trudged  away,  Father  turned  to  the 
table  and  picked  up  a  letter.  A  cheap  yellow  sheet,  written 
in  a  clumsy  disguised  hand.  He  handed  it  to  Mr.  Lincoln. 
Mr.  Lincoln  read  it. 

"John  Stephen  Stafford: 

Black  Abolishionist  &  Law-Breaker: 

You  had  better  quit  your  fooling  remember  what  hap- 
pened to  that  Yellow  Dog  Lovejoy  we  hear  tell  you  was  for 
the  Underground  other  mens  presses  have  been  burnt  too 

You  know  who  we  Are" 

There  was  no  signature.  But  in  the  corner  was  a  roughly 
drawn  skull  and  crossbones  and  what  looked  like  a  loop 
of  thread,  but  was  meant  no  doubt  for  a  noose. 

"I  don't  like  this,  Stafford.  Not  one  of  our  own  citizens 
would  offer  you  such  an  insult.  But  we  have  a  group  of 
drifters  here,  some  of  them  members  of  the  Clary  gang, 
who  have  nothing  to  lose.  They  wouldn't  hesitate  at  smash- 
ing your  press,  if  they  took  the  notion." 

"I'm  not  worried.  This  is  the  fourth  warning  sent  to  me 
this  winter." 

"I  don't  like  it,  I  tell  you."  Lincoln's  face  grew  dark. 
"Keep  your  eye  cocked  for  trouble." 

"Nonsense.  Only  a  coward  writes  an  anonymous  letter. 
An  ignoramus,  at  that.  And  look  at  the  spelling." 


THE    FATHER  195 

Mr.  Lincoln  grunted  disapproval. 

"Plenty  of  men  who  wouldn't  know  Noah  Webster  if 
they  met  him  on  the  street,  can  handle  a  crowbar." 

Father  grinned  at  him. 

"I  showed  you  that  to  give  you  a  laugh.  Not  to  bring 
down  a  jeremiad  on  my  head." 

He  threw  the  letter  into  the  fire.  As  he  passed  the  win- 
dow he  glanced  out. 

"Looks  as  if  it  was  working  around  to  snow  again.  I — 
why — who " 

He  stood  motionless,  staring.  His  face  turned  a  slow 
angry  crimson. 

"What's  wrong,  Stafford?"  Mr.  Lincoln  arose  and 
joined  him. 

Outside  stood  a  group  of  three  men,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing. They  waved  their  hands  to  Father,  and  beckoned  him 
eagerly. 

"What  ails  you,  Stafford?  Enemies,  hey?" 

"Great  Scott,  no!    Old  neighbors." 

Father  jerked  open  the  door  and  called  to  them  with 
loud  cordiality.  They  thundered  in,  shouting  greetings. 
Old  Green  River  neighbors,  everyone  of  them.  Doctor 
Allis,  Roger  Hill,  Truman  Crowther.  Truman  Crowther, 
stout,  jovial,  seized  Father's  shoulders  and  shook  him  with 
vim. 

"Here  we  are,  all  of  us!  I'm  the  only  one  of  the 
Crowther  tribe,  so  far,  but  we're  all  coming  west.  Lock, 
stock  and  barrel.  Came  out  the  same  way  you  took,  last 
fall.  First  by  way  of  the  Big  Ditch,  then  overland  from 
Buffalo.  Canal  still  full  of  floating  ice,  but  a  fine  trip." 

"All  your  family  is  coming,  you  say?  Your  brother 
Lemuel?  And  young  Lemuel,  too?" 

"Everyone  of  us.  The  two  Lemuels  will  be  along  in  a 
couple  of  weeks.  I  believe  young  Lem  was  wilder  to  start 


196  THE    FATHER 

west  than  all  the  rest  of  us,  put  together.  But  his  father 
made  him  stay  and  help  settle  things  up.  I  have  a  notion 
that  the  Sangamon  Country  is  not  the  sole  attraction  for 
young  Lemuel.  Before  you  started  west,  he  seemed  to  take 
a  considerable  shine  to  that  young  daughter  of  yours." 

"That  so?"  Father  smiled  blandly.  "Speaking  of  the 
canal  being  full  of  ice,  has  anybody  heard  about  conditions 
on  the  Ohio?  Is  it  still  frozen  over?  Or  have  the  packets 
started?" 

"Queen  of  the  West  starts  upstream  from  St.  Louis  next 
Thursday,  for  Cincinnati." 

"To  be  sure.  Providing  she  gets  there  whole.  Runs  a  big 
chance  in  all  this  floating  ice.  Let  one  sizable  cake  hit  her, 
and  her  hull  will  crumple  like  tinfoil.  Then  good-by,  boil- 
ers, and  passengers,  too." 

"Wonder  what  the  fare  is." 

"I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  it's  around  twenty  dollars. 
She'll  charge  enough,  mind  that.  But  she'll  get  the  cream  of 
the  early  spring  trade." 

"I  dare  say."  Father  smiled  on,  bland  and  serene. 

The  men  hung  about  idly  for  some  minutes.  But  at 
last  they  drifted  away.  Mr.  Lincoln  would  have  strolled 
away  with  them,  but  Father  beckoned  him  back. 

"I've  got  a  favor  to  ask,  Mr.  Lincoln.  If  you  can 
possibly  figure  on  it " 

"Figure  on  what?"  Mr.  Lincoln  stared  at  Father's 
flushed  face,  his  unsteady  hands.  "You  know  well  enough, 
Mr.  Stafford,  if  there's  any  way  I  can  serve  you " 

"Well.  I'm  asking  a  great  deal.  But  I'm  at  the  end  of 
my  rope.  Could  you  lend  me  as  much  as — sixty  dollars?" 

"I'd  hope  so.  The  Ferrand  case  paid  up  in  full  last  week. 
A  hundred  and  twenty,  cash.  You  get  twice  your  sixty  if 
you  say  the  word." 

"Sixty  will  be  enough."  He  figured  frantically.  Twenty 


THE    FATHER  197 

dollars  fare  on  the  Queen  of  the  West.  Ten  dollars  to  take 
the  child  by  stage  from  Cincinnati  to  Yellow  Springs.  Six 
dollars  by  stage  from  here  to  St.  Louis.  Yes,  sixty  would  be 
plenty.  If  only  he  had  time  to  write  Horace  Mann  in  ad- 
vance, so  that  he  would  know  Mercy  was  on  the  way,  and 
would  meet  her! 

His  grasp  tightened  on  the  handful  of  gold-pieces  which 
Mr.  Lincoln  pulled  from  his  gold  belt. 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  this." 

"Drop  that.  It's  an  honor.  How  long  will  you  be  away?*' 

"Only  three  or  four  days." 

"W-well."  Mr.  Lincoln  scratched  his  head.  "I  reckon 
your  paper  has  got  to  come  out,  the  same  as  ever,  whether 
you're  here  or  not.  If  it  doesn't  there  are  a  good  many 
folks  that  will  be  disappointed.  Provoked,  too." 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  The  issue  is  all  blocked  out. 
But  there  isn't  a  soul  to  set  it  up.  To  say  nothing  of  turning 
the  press " 

"Well."  Mr.  Lincoln  looked  sheepish.  "Court  adjourns 
to-morrow,  for  a  week.  I'll  have  some  spare  time  on  my 
hands.  Don't  you  worry  about  the  paper." 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

MERCY  sat  alone  in  a  small  tight  room  in  a  small 
tight  splint  rocker  adorned  with  a  small  tight  patch- 
work cushion.  Everything  in  that  room  was  small  and 
skimp  and  compact  as  a  needlebook.  There  was  a  narrow 
single  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers  with  a  mirror  no  larger 
than  a  man's  hand,  a  diminutive  washbowl  and  pitcher,  a 
miniature  glass  hand-lamp,  and  a  pile  of  books.  The  books 
alone  bore  a  massive  aspect.  They  included  an  alarming 
collection  of  text-books,  a  smart  new  McGuffey's  Fifth 
Reader  chosen  for  its  Oratorical  Selections,  a  Colburn's 
Mentaly  her  Bible,  her  diary. 

Outside  the  narrow  window,  tossing  frozen  tree- 
branches  drew  squares  and  triangles  and  did  cube  roots 
against  a  frozen  moonlit  sky. 

Mercy  rubbed  her  eyes  and  pinched  her  wrists  with 
firm  pink  fingers.  But  it  was  all  real.  The  marvels  of  the 
past  five  days  raced  before  her  eyes,  tiny,  vivid,  clear,  like 
the  hurrying  mimic  rainbows  that  chased  each  other  over 
Cyrus's  shining  glass  bowl. 

She  saw  herself  that  last  evening  at  home,  as  she  stood 
frying  a  great  panful  of  mush  for  supper.  Twonnet  was 
scouring  the  knives,  Aunty  sat  knitting  in  her  fireside  chair. 
The  little  boys  clung  to  their  sister's  skirts  and  poured  out 
the  doings  of  the  day. 

"And  teacher  she  says  to  'Doniram,  'Where  is  Egypt?' 
and  he  says,  'Northern  Africa.'  And  she  says,  'Bound  it.' 
And  he  tells  her,  'Bounded  on  the  north  by  the  Mediter- 
ranean, on  the  east  by  the  Red  Sea,  on  the  south  by  the 
Nubian  Desert '  Then  he  gets  stuck,  but  he  knows  he's 


THE    FATHER  199 

got  to  say  something,  so  he  squeaks  out,  'And  on  the  west 
by  a  row  of  pyramids '  " 

Down  on  Seth's  candid  mouth  landed  a  small  hard  palm. 
A  startled  yelp:  then  the  two  clinched  and  went  to  the 
floor. 

"Boys!  Stop  that.  This  minute.  Here's  Father.  What  will 
he  say?" 

The  shindy  ceased  promptly.  But  Father  did  not  even 
look  their  way.  He  threw  of!  his  coat  and  took  the  mush- 
turner  from  Mercy's  hand. 

"Where's  Twonnet?  Twonnet,  please  come  and  finish 
getting  supper.  Mercy,  I  have  something  to  talk  over  with 
you." 

He  drew  her  into  his  own  room  and  shut  the  door. 

"Daughter,  can  you  pack  up  your  clothes  to-night? 
You're  going  to  Yellow  Springs.  To  Mr.  Mann's  college. 
Right  away." 

"Why,  Father " 

"I've  told  you  always  that  you  were  to  go  to  college. 
Right  now  comes  your  opportunity."  He  laughed,  a  little 
harshly.  "To-morrow  morning,  we'll  take  the  stage  to 
St.  Louis.  Thursday  morning,  I'll  put  you  on  the  Queen 
of  the  West,  going  to  Cincinnati.  I'll  put  you  in  the 
Captain's  care.  At  Cincinnati  you're  to  take  the  northbound 
stage  to  Yellow  Springs.  Tell  Mr.  Mann  that  I  sent  you. 
I'll  send  him  a  letter  by  you,  too." 

"But,  Father!  How  can  you  manage  without  me?  You 
can't!" 

"I'll  have  to  manage,  that  is  all.  Now  pack  whatever 
you'll  need.  We  must  start  early." 

The  picture  dimmed,  vanished.  In  its  place  she  saw 
Aunty  stooping  above  her  little  trunk  to  lift  out  her 
treasures. 

"You  shall  take  my  dolman  with  the  weepers  and  my 


200  THE    FATHER 

cameo  tombstone.  High  time  I  gave  it  to  you.  And  my 
gold  beads  and  your  grandmother's  ivory  fan  and  her 
torty-shell  comb.  And  I've  got  a  little  interest  money  left. 
Almost  eight  dollars.  Better  take  it.  You  may  need  some 
extra  fixings." 

Past  Aunty's  stooped  black  shadow  gleamed  the  glittering 
blinding  sweep  of  the  great  ice-strewn  river.  Regal  in 
white  and  gold,  the  great  boat  swung  round  the  bend.  In 
midstream  she  slackened,  turned  slowly,  then  glided  in- 
shore. 

The  gangplank  fell.  Noise,  confusion.  Then  through 
the  tumult  came  the  Captain,  punctilious,  emblazoned,  and 
bowed  to  her  with  ceremony.  She  felt  Father's  grip  grow 
tight,  then  loosen.  The  Captain  took  her  cold  little  fingers 
and  led  her  down  the  gangplank  into  the  gilt  and  crystal 
splendor  of  the  great  cabin. 

Then  came  three  unbelievable  days  on  the  river,  her  first 
real  journey  into  the  proud  world  of  the  day.  Another  day 
on  the  stagecoach.  Then  Mrs.  Mann's  sweet  and  gentle 
welcome  and  Mr.  Mann's  eager  hospitality  and  hurried 
generous  kindnesses.  Hurried  by  reason  of  that  cruel  haste 
that  forced  him  to  crowd  all  his  merciless  tasks  into  the 
pitifully  little  time  that  remained  to  him.  .  .  . 

But  the  pictures  raced  on  each  other's  heels.  "I  ought  to 
set  down  all  these  things.  So  I'll  never  forget."  Con- 
scientious and  important,  she  took  her  diary  from  the  bump- 
tious little  trunk,  and  set  to  work. 

"Yellow  S f rings y  Ohio,  March  seventh. 
"This  is  the  most  remarkable  day  of  my  life.  I  am  now 
enrolled  as  a  freshman  in  Antioch  College.  I  came  up  alone 
from  St.  Louis,  aboard  the  Queen  of  the  West.  The  Captain 
of  the  steamboat  was  very  kind  to  me.  His  wife  is  beauti- 
ful. She  was  making  the  trip  with  him  because  it  is  the 


THE    FATHER  201 

first  run  of  the  year  and  she  had  to  come  to  bring  the  boat 
good  luck.  She  had  on  an  apricot-colored  lutestring  dress, 
with  three  flounces  embroidered  in  green  and  red  velvet 
cherries.  They  were  life-size,  and  looked  very  natural. 
She  had  a  necklace  and  earrings  of  red  coral  cherries,  too. 
They  also  looked  natural.  She  uses  a  great  deal  of  Balm  of 
a  Thousand  Flowers,  You  can  smell  it  all  the  way  down 
the  cabin.  She  was  very  kind  to  me.  There  were  not  many 
ladies  on  the  boat,  but  a  great  many  gentlemen.  There  were 
5  young  men  who  were  going  to  Cincinnati  on  the  boat 
and  then  to  New  York  on  the  steam  cars.  They  were  always 
coming  to  ask  if  I  did  not  wish  to  go  up  on  the  hurricane 
deck,  and  watch  the  moon.  They  were  very  kind  to  me. 

"The  second  evening,  all  5  asked  me.  They  were  very 
polite,  especially  one  of  them.  He  had  had  too  much  peach 
brandy  at  supper.  He  kept  saying,  'Queen  and  Huntress, 
Chaste  and  Fair,'  to  me.  I  think  he  got  it  out  of  a  book. 

"The  moon  was  very  large  and  bright.  You  could  see 
away  up  the  river.  The  floating  ice  looked  black  some- 
times, and  other  times  it  was  like  little  shining  ships,  all 
made  out  of  glass  and  rainbows.  I  kept  thinking  how 
Thomas  would  like  some  of  them  to  play  with.  I  fear  I 
am  going  to  be  somewhat  homesick  for  Thomas. 

"Away  up  the  river  was  something  long  and  slim  and 
black.  It  looked  like  a  log.  Only  it  went  straight  and  even 
across  the  river,  and  soon  we  saw  it  was  not  a  log.  It  was  a 
long  black  rowboat.  There  were  people  in  it.  I  counted 
seven,  and  I  think  there  were  two  more,  huddled  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.  Only  one  man  was  rowing,  so  it  went 
very  slow,  and  the  ice-cakes  kept  bumping  it. 

"Pretty  soon  the  Queen  of  the  West  turned  inshore  to 
make  her  channel.  She  came  so  close,  we  could  see  the 
people,  and  they  looked  like  negroes,  except  for  the  oars- 
man. He  was  a  young  man.  He  was  tall  and  dark  and  had 


202  THE    FATHER 

no  cap  on  and  no  coat,  but  he  had  a  strip  of  white  cloth 
tied  across  his  forehead.  The  Captain  came  along  and  I 
said,  Who  are  those  people,  and  are  they  not  reckless  to  try 
to  cross  the  river  through  the  ice?  And  the  Captain  laughed 
and  said  'I  would  take  a  few  risks  myself,  if  this  was  my 
one  chance  of  escaping  slavery.'  Then  the  peach-brandy 
young  man  said,  'By  Jove,  they  are  runaway  niggers,  let's 
take  a  pot  shot  at  them!'  And  he  jerked  out  a  very  hand- 
some pearl-handled  revolver  and  pointed  it  right  at  them. 
I  felt  very  vexed  at  that,  and  threw  up  my  hand  and  struck 
his  pistol  arm.  I  did  not  mean  to  strike  so  hard,  but  I  guess 
the  Davenport  temper  must  have  possessed  me,  for  he  yelled 
like  sixty  and  dropped  the  revolver. 

"However,  it  was  just  as  well,  for  the  revolver  was 
cocked,  and  when  it  struck  the  deck  it  went  off  like  a  can- 
non. And  the  Captain  rushed  at  him,  and  called  him  a  per- 
fectly dreadful  name,  and  said,  You  drunken  fool,  I  have 
a  mind  to  throw  you  overboard.  What  do  you  mean,  pull- 
ing a  gun  and  ladies  present?  Then  the  young  man  acted 
very  Saucy,  and  the  Captain  took  him  by  his  coat-collar, 
and  dragged  him  down  the  stairs  to  the  cabin.  I  thought  it 
was  then  time  that  I  went  down  to  the  Captain's  wife,  so  I 
did  so,  but  just  as  I  got  to  the  cabin  door  the  young  man 
lost  his  temper  and  struck  the  Captain  right  in  the  eye,  and 
then  the  Captain  jumped  on  him,  and  shook  him  till  he 
flapped  and  threw  him  across  the  cabin  and  the  young  man 
went  bang  into  the  grand  piano.  All  the  ladies  present 
jumped  up  and  screamed  and  started  to  faint,  and  the 
fiddlers  stopped  and  started  to  run,  fiddles  and  all,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  it  was  quite  exciting.  I  hope  this  will  be  a 
lesson  to  the  young  man  not  to  drink  so  much  brandy 
after  dinner.  Anyway,  I  am  glad  I  kept  him  from  firing 
on  the  negroes,  for  if  Father  is  an  Abolitionist,  I  am  one 
myself.  Besides,  he  might  have  hit  the  white  boy  who  was 
rowing  them. 


THE    FATHER  203 

"Aunt  Celestia  lent  me  all  her  best  things  except  her 
hoops.  I  knew  she  could  not  spare  them,  so  I  did  not  ask 
for  them.  But  I  felt  terribly  to  have  only  my  old  set  which 
is  absolutely  ruined  ever  since  Seth  jumped  off  the  shed 
with  them  trying  to  play  parachute  and  broke  all  the  steels. 
But  early  the  morning  we  started  I  took  Adoniram  and  the 
wire  shears  and  we  climbed  up  and  got  a  whole  armful 
of  grape-vine  off  the  barn.  I  was  afraid  it  was  so  frozen 
it  would  break,  but  the  sap  was  running  so  it  was  all  right. 
Then  I  took  my  tucked  petticoat  and  ran  the  vine  into  the 
tucks,  and  it  looks  as  well  as  the  steel  ones,  only  you 
have  to  be  careful  how  you  sit  down.  Adoniram  is  a  great 
comfort,  now  he  is  growing  up. 

"I  have  filled  up  all  my  space  and  have  no  room  for 
Spiritual  Meditation  only  will  say  that  the  College  will  have 
visiting  ministers  every  Sabbath,  and  I  presume  they  will 
set  before  us  their  most  uplifting  doctrines. 

"P.S.  There  was  a  new  student  at  the  dining-hall  to- 
night. He  is  very  tall  and  he  had  an  ugly  dark  bruise  across 
his  forehead.  We  had  scrapple  for  supper,  and  the  student 
waiters  kept  hanging  around  him  and  filling  his  plate  till 
I  thought  he  would  founder.  He  is  very  genteel  in  manner. 
He  looks  more  like  Henry  Esmond  than  Lemuel  Crowther 
could  ever  look  in   1,000,000  years. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  Father  tonight.  I  am  afraid  I  will 
be  more  homesick  for  him  than  I  am  for  Thomas." 

Outside  the  dormitory  window  the  moon  hung  chill  and 
wan  above  the  empty  fields.  Miles  away,  to  the  west,  it 
lighted  past  other  empty  fields,  on  and  on.  It  poured  a 
thin  and  fitful  light  into  Father's  little  uncurtained  study. 
Adoniram,  pursued  by  the  threat  of  a  lonesome  streak,  lay 
on  the  cot  with  Joseph's  Coat  pulled  over  his  slumbering 
head.  Under  his  dim  lamp,  Father  sat  and  toiled  over  a 
closely  written  page,  an  article  for  The  Atlantic  World, 


204  THE    FATHER 

If  the  editor  liked  it,  he  might  get  as  much  as  ten  dollars 
for  it.  In  that  case,  thank  Heaven,  he  could  pay  Mr.  Lin- 
coln five  dollars  on  his  loan,  at  once. 

It  was  not  easy  to  write,  however,  for  his  mind  kept 
crowding  the  article  aside,  thrusting  before  him  the  one 
passionate  tender  question,  was  it  well  with  his  child?  Was 
she  safe  with  his  friends  to-night,  and  contented  and 
happy  ? 

"If  only  she  enjoys  the  school,  if  only  she  does  well 
there,  I  can  manage  without  her,"  he  told  himself. 

But  the  loneliness  for  her  was  tearing  him  to  pieces. 
Oh,  he  could  stand  that.  At  least,  he  had  saved  her  from  a 
possible  romance  with  that  large  oaf  of  a  Lemuel  Crowther. 

Down  in  the  depths  of  him  he  knew  perfectly  well  that 
he  could  not  hold  Mercy  forever.  And  she  had  her  right  to 
womanhood.  But  not  now.  She  was  so  little,  so  innocent,  so 
utterly  a  child.  She  needed  a  father,  not  a  lover.  When  she 
grew  older,  say  twenty-five.  That  would  be  quite  early 
enough.  By  that  time,  she  would  have  had  time  to  meet 
men  who  were  more  nearly  her  equals.  Not  that  any  man 
could  ever  be  good  enough  for  his  girl.  But  Lemuel  G. 
Crowther,  the  great  worshipful  booby Never! 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  Eleven  o'clock.  He  took  the 
key  from  his  chain,  wound  it  slowly.  Then  for  a  few 
minutes  he  sat,  motionless. 

Clouds  passed  over  the  moon,  shadowing  the  world  to 
darkness.  Swiftly  they  passed:  the  room  was  again  illumined 
by  that  chill  and  lonely  light. 

Father  put  out  his  hand.  He  did  not  put  it  out  to  touch 
'Doniram.  Instead,  his  fingers  stroked  a  small  warm  sleepy 
bundle.  A  bundle  of  yellow  flannel.  From  one  end,  there 
depended  a  tiny  red  scalplock.  From  the  other,  dangled  a 
pair  of  bright  red  flatiron  feet. 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN 

MERCY  had  been  a  college  woman  for  five  days. 
It  felt  like  five  years,  she  reflected,  with  a  certain 
complacence.  For  in  that  time,  she  told  herself,  she  had 
settled  into  the  groove  of  her  classes,  she  had  thrown  off  her 
besieging  homesickness,  she  had  made  a  brand-new  intimate 
friend,  Deborah  Sherwin.  Deborah,  sturdy,  wholesome, 
sweet,  with  a  lisp  that  awoke  aching  memories  of  little 
Thomas  and  freckles  that  stirred  wild  longings  for  Adoni- 
ram,  had  set  herself  to  the  pleasing  task  of  instructing  the 
stranger  upon  the  world  of  Antioch,  with  all  possible  speed. 

"This  isn't  just  a  college,  Mercy  Rose.  It's  a  place  where 
all  sorts  of  folks  come,  whenever  they  think  they  have 
something  to  say.  And  they  say  it.  I  figure  there's  maybe  a 
hundred  kinds  of  preachers  been  here,  all  trying  to  convert 
us  to  their  notions.  To  begin  with  there  are  all  the  regular 
religions  you  ever  heard  tell  of.  But  that  isn't  a  drop  in 
the  bucket. 

"There  are  the  men  who  think  it  is  sinful  to  get  their 
hair  cut,  and  those  that  run  around  without  any  socks,  no 
matter  what  awful  chilblains  they  get,  and  the  Hook-and- 
Eyers  who  won't  wear  buttons,  and  the  Seamless  Ones,  who 
cut  their  clothes  out  of  double-wove  sheeting  so's  it  won't 
have  to  be  sewed  anywhere.  Goodness,  you  can't  begin  to 
count  them." 

Deborah  spoke  truth.  In  the  early  fifties  the  whole  coun- 
try seethed  with  the  ferment  of  a  thousand  agitations  and 
reforms.  Cult  after  cult  sprang  up,  so  many  impassioned 
little  mushrooms,  sprouting  overnight  in  that  hot  teeming 
soil    of    bitterness    and    disunion.    Millerite,    Grahamite, 


206  THE    FATHER 

Phrenologist,  Communist,  a  swarming  host,  known  afar  off 
by  their  intolerable  deal  of  beard  and  their  plentiful  lack 
of  collar,  stormed  Antioch's  gates.  And  every  man  of  them 
gayly  quartered  down  on  the  struggling  little  college  and 
its  patient  Head,  naively  sure  of  broad  fellowship,  unfail- 
ing sympathy. 

"Sounds  like  the  Apostle." 

"What  Apostle?  Goodness,  we've  had  eight  kinds  of 
Apostles,  only  this  spring." 

"Our  Apostle.  The  one  with  the  dishpan.  And  the  long 
hair." 

"They  all  have  long  hair.  Then  there  are  the  States' 
Righters.  Not  so  many  of  them,  but  they  stomp  and  holler 
till  you're  plumb  deef.  Mr.  Mann  doesn't  believe  as  they 
do,  but  he  says,  Let  them  talk,  for  a  college  must  be  an 
open  forum. 

"And  the  Abolitionists.  They  don't  talk  so  much.  They 
work.  There's  a  string  of  Underground  stations  all  the  way 
across  Ohio  from  Cincinnati  to  Cleveland,  and  the  con- 
ductors stop  here  on  their  way  back.  They  talk,  too.  But 
mostly  they're  too  tired  to  say  much.  I  think  the  Aboli- 
tionists are  elegant.  Mr.  Phillips  came  out  from  Boston  last 
year  'purpose  to  address  us.  He  wore  the  handsomest  waist- 
coat I  ever  saw  in  all  my  born  days.  Black  velvet,  with  gold 
acorns  on  it.  He's  almost  as  stylish  as  Mr.  Mann  himself. 
Wait  till  you  meet  Mr.  Mann  on  the  campus,  and  he  bows 
to  you.  You'll  feel  like  Queen  Victoria." 

"He  has.  And  I  did." 

"Some  of  our  students  are  working  on  the  Underground 
right  now.  'Specially  one  new  boy,  who  only  came  a  week 
or  so  ago.  His  name  is  Richard  Harrison.  He  is  the  most 
stuck-up  thing  you  ever  laid  eyes  on.  His  folks  used  to  be  the 
grandest  folks  in  Boston,  they  say,  but  they  lost  most  of 
their   money   and   now   they're    all   dead,   and   he    has   a 


THE    FATHER  207 

guardian  back  east  till  he's  twenty-one.  The  guardian  is 
very  old  and  set  in  his  ways,  and  he  thinks  the  Underground 
road  is  the  sure  path  to  perdition.  And  Richard  has  no 
money,  except  what  this  old  man  gives  him.  Nowadays, 
since  the  boy  has  taken  up  with  the  Abolitionists,  the  old 
fellow  won't  give  him  a  copper.  So  he  came  here  to  work 
his  way  through  Antioch,  with  Mr.  Mann  giving  him  what 
help  he  can.  Whenever  the  Underground  wants  him  they 
send  him  word  and  he  drives  for  them  by  night.  Some- 
times he  takes  a  load  all  the  way  from  the  Ohio  shore  clear 
across  the  state  and  lands  the  negroes  at  the  Lake  where 
there's  somebody  waiting  to  take  them  on  as  stowaways.  He 
even  rows  across  the  Ohio  and  fetches  them  from  the  other 
side.  Right  through  floating  ice,  mind  that.  They  say  he 
isn't  afraid  of  the  face  o'  clay." 

Before  Mercy's  eyes  flowed  that  moonlit  icy  river,  the 
narrow  black  row-boat,  the  dark  huddled  faces.  Then  the 
white  face  of  the  oarsman,  the  white  bandage  across  his 
forehead. 

"I'll  point  him  out  to  you.  He  comes  to  our  geometry 
class  whenever  he's  here.  The  boys  are  all  crazy  about  him. 
They  think  he's  a  hero.  But  he's  too  offish  for  us  girls.  He 
won't  come  to  our  taffy  pulls  even  if  he's  especially  invited. 
Didn't  I  write  him  an  invitation  to  the  last  one  my  own 
self  and  on  my  pink  paper!" 

Mercy  sat  staid  and  prim  in  the  geometry  class.  Serenely 
she  realized  that  she  looked  very  well  indeed.  Her  slippers 
were  especially  gratifying.  They  were  old,  but  freshly 
blacked,  and  Aunty's  wide  grosgrain  ties  gave  them  a 
pleasing  touch  of  elegance.  She  was  drawing  demure  tri- 
angles in  her  Colburn's  Mental,  when  Deborah's  fingers 
nipped  her  arm. 

"Mind  what  I  told  you  about  Richard  Harrison?  Here 
he  comes  large  as  life.  Isn't  he  genteel-looking?  Or  would 


208  THE    FATHER 

be  if  he  wasn't  so  hulking  big.  Stuck-up  thing.  Look  at  the 
straps  on  his  trouserth." 

Mercy  looked  up.  The  boy  who  was  coming  down  the 
aisle  was  certainly  big  enough.  A  slim  young  Colossus  in 
strapped  nankeen  pantaloons,  tight  as  a  glove,  and  a  blue 
jacket,  from  which  his  enormous  wrists  sprouted,  pathetic, 
unbelievable.  His  black  hair  made  a  heavy  glittering  cap 
above  his  dark  face.  His  eyes,  dark,  heavy-lidded,  yet  keen  as 
a  hawk's,  looked  at  her,  past  her,  back  to  her  again.  He 
would  have  been  more  than  genteel,  she  thought,  he  would 
have  been  handsome,  if  it  were  not  for  the  broad  livid 
scar  across  his  forehead. 

The  boy  had  stopped  short  now.  He  was  not  just  glancing 
her  way.  He  was  staring  at  her.  His  hooded  eyes  widened. 
Then  the  red  flared  up  into  his  face.  He  strode  on  past  her. 

As  the  two  went  staidly  down  the  corridor,  Deborah 
giggled. 

"My  sakes  alive!  How  he  gaped  at  you!  Have  you  ever 
seen  him  before?" 

"Why,  no.  B-but " 

Mercy's  voice  died  in  her  throat.  The  boy  had  stopped 
at  the  west  door.  He  was  waiting  for  them.  He  was  now  all 
but  purple  with  embarrassment,  but  he  had  something  to  say, 
and  he  intended  to  say  it,  though  the  heavens  fell. 

"Miss  Sherwin,  will  you  please  introduce  me?  I  wish 
to  speak  to  this  lady." 

Mercy  dropped  a  hasty  curtsey. 

"I  think  I  have  a  lost  article I  mean,  you  lent  it  to 

me If  I  may  explain " 

He  was  staring  at  her  feet,  now.  Thank  goodness,  she 
had  on  her  trim  slippers  with  the  wide  bows. 

But  the  boy  was  not  admiring  them.  Instead,  he  was 
kneeling  beside  her. 

"Will  you  allow  me?" 


THE    FATHER  209 

Her  own  glance  fell.  Over  her  rolled  a  tide  of  horror. 
Those  treacherous  slipper  bows!  Oh,  if  Aunty  had  only 
made  them  of  her  second-best  silk  and  not  of  the  third- 
best!  For  one  ribbon  had  broken  like  a  cobweb.  Outrageous 
slattern!  She  looked  miserably  at  the  treacherous  gaud.  Oh, 
would  the  kind  earth  please,  please  open  and  swallow 
her  up? 

The  boy  bent  before  her.  He  knotted  the  malicious  rib- 
bons: with  fiendish  trickery,  they  frayed  and  tore  again. 
He  choked  out  a  mumbled  word. 

"Please  don't  trouble,"  Mercy  gasped  out,  "I've  got  some 
other  strings " 

He  straightened  up,  brushed  the  sweat  from  his  blazing 
face.  His  dignity  was  overpowering. 

"You  do  not  recall  me  to  mind,  Miss  Stafford.  But  I 
know  you.  If  you  will  permit  me  a  few  moments  under  the 
big  sycamore  at  the  north  end  of  the  Glen  at  maybe  four 
o'clock  this  afternoon " 

"LAWS  AND  REGULATIONS  OF  ANTIOCH 
COLLEGE 

(From  the  Antioch  Catalogue,  1 851) 
Regulation  No.  27 

"In  order  to  give  the  respective  sexes  equal  opportunities 
of  visiting  the  Glen  and  enjoying  its  shades  and  its  waters, 
they  will  have  the  privilege  to  do  so  on  Alternate  Days, — 
that  is,  on  Wednesday,  the  first  day  of  each  Term,  the 
Young  Gentlemen  may  visit  it.  On  Thursday,  the  Young 
Ladies,  and  so  on,  alternating  from  day  to  day,  through 
the  Term. 

"However:  Neither  Sex  will  be  allowed  to  encroach 
upon  the  Day  allotted  to  the  Other  Sex." 


210  THE    FATHER 

— But  why  such  Draconian  rules,  if  not  to  be  forgotten? 

Spring  came  slowly  down  the  Glen.  The  catkins  were  so 
many  tiny  velvet  fingers,  yet  on  them  still  lay  a  silver 
powdering  of  frost.  Underfoot  the  turf  lay  wet  and  cold 
and  ice-flecked,  but  overhead  danced  a  gleam  of  green  in 
the  swelling  buds.  Past  them,  for  all  the  piercing  chill,  the 
sky  shone  blue  as  a  bowlful  of  bluest  sea. 

Mercy  had  not  spoken.  She  did  not  need  to  speak. 

"You  don't  know  me.  But  I  knew  you  the  minute  I 
saw  you.  You  kept  your  fingers  on  that  cut.  You  took  the 
ribbon  off  your  neck,  so  your  father  could  make  a  tourni- 
quet of  it."  He  stopped,  trembling. 

"I — I've  seen  you  another  time,  too.  Not  a  week  ago. 
You  had  on  this  same  blue  dress,  and  this  cape.  You  stood 
right  under  the  torches  on  the  hurricane  deck.  I  could  see 
you  just  as  clear.  And  you  knocked  the  gun  out  of  that 
fool's  hand  when  he  started  to  fire  on  us " 

Mercy  sat  in  her  splint  rocker,  close  to  the  smoky  airtight 
stove.  Snuggled  down  in  the  deep  feather-bed  Deborah 
slept,  had  slept  for  hours.  But  Mercy's  eyes  were  gray 
fires.  She  gripped  her  diary  with  one  icy  little  hand,  her 
tall  quill  pen  with  the  other. 

"He  says  he  has  known  me  always.  First,  you  think  his 
eyes  are  black  but  they  are  not.  They  are  very  dark  gray 
like  father's,  but  his  eyelashes  are  so  black  you  think  his 
eyes  are,  too.  Deborah  says  he  is  too  hulking  big.  Much  she 
knows  about  it.  He  is  tall  and  splendid  and  he  looks  like 
Hektor  in  Aunty's  engraving  of  the  Fall  of  Troy,  only 
sometimes  he  more  resembles  Henry  Esmond,  and  when  he 
gets  excited  he  is  precisely  like  Mr.  Rochester  in  Jane 
Eyre.  On  Page  346,  when  he  comes  to  save  her  from  the 
Maniac. 


THE    FATHER  211 

"When  we  came  home  he  had  to  leave  me  at  the  campus 
gate,  because  it  is  not  considered  seemly  for  boys  to  walk 
with  girls,  and  anyway  there  is  always  somebody  snooping. 
And  he  pretended  he  had  dropped  a  paper  out  of  his  note- 
book, and  had  to  stoop  to  pick  it  up,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
kissed  the  back  of  my  hand.  At  least  he  tried  to,  but  he 
brushed  against  my  undersleeve  instead.  It  was  one  of  the 
Mechlin  undersleeves  Aunty  made  me  out  of  the  lace  on 
Grandmother's  wedding  bonnet. 

"His  eyebrows  are  very  black  and  thick,  and  there  is  a 
dent  in  one  of  them.  I  presume  he  proberly  fell  off  the 
woodshed  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  Like  Seth  did  the  time 
he  broke  my  hoopskirt.  I  wish  I  had  known  him  when  he 
was  a  little  boy.  He  does  not  laugh  much,  except  with  his 
eyes.  He  said  he  had  something  of  mine,  to  give  back  to  me. 
I  presume  it  was  my  engagement  ring  that  Lemuel  bought 
me  from  the  postoffice  store  for  $1.50.  But  we  both  forgot 
about  it. 

"When  we  got  back,  I  found  a  letter  from  Lemuel.  But 
I  have  not  had  time  to  open  it." 

(That  statement  was  erroneous.  Instead  of  opening  Lem- 
uel's letter  at  once  she  had  yielded  to  panic  and  jammed  it 
under  her  shoe-box  in  the  lower  drawer.) 

"I  suppose  I  should  open  it  and  reply  to  it  at  once.  Poor 
Lemuel,  he  has  given  me  his  heart's  true  devotion.  But  I 
cannot  love  him  as  he  deserves  to  be  loved.  Not  ever  again. 
I  do  not  know  how  I  can  break  the  news  to  him.  It  is  a 
dreadful  thing,  to  realize  you  can  no  longer  love  the  man 
to  whom  you  were  thinking  about  being  betrothed.  I  hope 
Lemuel  does  not  go  into  a  Decline.  If  he  should  die  of 
grief,  I  would  never  get  over  it. 

"We  did  not  have  any  visiting  minister  Sunday,  so  I  have 
not  any  Spiritual  Meditations  to  write  about." 


212  THE    FATHER 

You  woke  with  the  first  dim  gray  of  the  morning.  Under 
the  misty  sky  the  world  lay  hushed.  Only  an  inquiring  robin 
lifted  a  vague  far  note.  The  night  was  flowing  away  so 
smoothly,  so  slowly,  a  dim  river  that  turned  from  black 
to  gray,  from  gray  to  silver.  Down  that  river  the  wind  came 
drifting  and  stirred  the  willows  and  made  them  whisper. 
Then  it  faltered  and  was  still.  The  stars  flared  white  as 
burning  paper,  against  that  paling  sky. 

Then  up  the  east  came  the  trumpeters,  file  on  gleaming 
file.  They  blew  their  reveille  in  notes  of  scarlet  and  gold 
and  mounting  blinding  flame.  And  as  the  new  day  came 
marching  up  the  sky  you  laughed  at  it  softly.  For  how 
arrogant  was  this  day,  to  dream  that  it  could  hold  more  of 
magic,  more  of  glory,  than  yesterday  had  held,  than  to- 
morrow would  fling  down  before  you! 

"Here's  your  blue  ribbon,  Mercy,  what's  left  of  it.  And 
your  ring.  Tell  me,  who  gave  you  that  ring?  Your  father?" 

Mercy  looked  up  with  a  start.  A  quick  pulse  leaped  in 
her  soft  throat.  Richard  looked  down  on  her.  He  asked 
nothing  more  of  this  world  than  the  chance  to  kneel  down 
and  kiss  that  little  leaping  pulse  till  it  was  quieted  beneath 
his  lips. 

"Come  on,  Mercy.  Tell  me." 

"A— friend.  Back  east." 

"Are  you  promised  to  marry  him?" 

"No.  Not  exactly." 

"How  much  are  you  promised,  then?" 

"Well,  I  told  him  I'd  think  it  over." 

"Was  that  all?  Cross  your  heart?" 

"Y-yes." 

"All  right.  I'll  do  your  thinking  for  you  after  this. 
Forget  him." 

"But  I  ought  to  write  to  him,  and  explain." 


THE    FATHER  213 

"Explain  what?    Just  tell  him  that — that "  Then 

that  front  of  Jove  faded  into  nothingness.  There  remained, 
not  a  frowning  Splendor,  but  a  terror-stricken  small  boy. 
"T-tell  him  that  you're  th-thinking  about  somebody  else. 
That's  all." 

Mercy  tripped  sedately  down  the  stairs  to  early  chapel. 
This  sedateness  was  no  easy  achievement.  For  her  feet  were 
dancing,  her  eyes  were  dancing,  her  heart  was  dancing  in 
her  breast. 

Richard  was  standing  at  the  door.  Richard's  glance  was 
casual,  unconcerned.  Between  the  two  there  leaped  a  flash 
of  living  flame. 

Then  as  they  stood  together,  before  they  could  speak  one 
word,  there  came  to  them  President  Mann.  Quiet,  urbane, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Richard's  arm. 

"A  messenger  has  come  for  you,  Richard.  He  says  for 
you  to  go  on  horseback  to  the  Armistead  farm  and  drive 
some — some  friends  to  Cleveland.  You  are  to  start  at  once." 

Richard  bowed  respectfully.  Then,  as  President  Mann 
turned  away  he  spoke  under  his  breath. 

"Back  by  Monday.  Maybe  sooner.  You  know  why  I'm 
going."  His  voice  fell  to  a  whisper.  "I'll  be  thinking  about 
you  every  minute  I'm  gone.  I'll  be  thinking  about  you — 
forever.  Good-by." 

She  stared  after  him  as  he  strode  away.  She  knew  that 
he  was  going  straight  into  danger.  She  knew  that  she  should 
be  dismayed,  afraid.  But  the  diamond  morning  still  shone 
around  her,  her  joy  beat  out  its  rush  of  ecstasy. 

At  the  chapel  door  stood  the  table  on  which  the  mail  for 
the  students  was  placed.  Another  letter  for  her!  Could 
this  be  from  Lemuel,  too? 

This  letter  was  not  from  Lemuel.  It  was  a  large  ruled 
sheet,  laboriously  printed  by  Seth's  chubby  hand.  Seth,  her 


2i4  THE    FATHER 

precious  little  boggier  of  a  brother!  She  tore  it  open.  Seth 
might  be  the  family  blunderer;  but  no  more  loyal  little 
spirit  ever  clumped  in  copper-toed  shoes. 

"Dere  Mercy  I  guess  father  would  lick  me  if  he  knew 
I  told  you  because  he  said  I  am  not  going  to  tell  Mercy  the 
press  &  offis  got  burnt  and  worry  her  it  was  a  mask  mob 
done  it  they  says  they  would  get  father  too  but  they  dident 
Ant  Celesty  is  sick  abed  Twonnet  tries  to  cook  Jo  Vanny 
cut  his  leg  open  with  the  ax  the  Captn  has  roomatism  he 
cant  even  hobbel  no  more  at  present  from  your  loving 
brother 

Seth  Huntingdon  Stafford." 

For  a  moment  Mercy  held  the  letter  in  her  hand  staring 
down  at  it:  then  she  fled  up  the  stairs.  One  hour  more  and 
the  southbound  stage  would  leave  Yellow  Springs  for  Cin- 
cinnati. If  she  made  that  stage  she  could  take  the  next 
steamboat  for  St.  Louis.  If  she  did  not  reach  Cincinnati  in 
time  she  would  have  to  wait  seven  days,  seven  eternities  for 
the  next  boat  that  would  take  her  home.  Oh,  if  she  could 
only  make  it!  She  must  see  Father  this  minute,  she  must 
know  whether  Seth  had  told  her  all  the  truth.  Was  Father 
hurt?  Was  Seth  trying  to  break  cruel  news,  yet  break  it 
gently? 

Into  her  trunk  she  hurled  books,  clothing,  trinkets.  Her 
Colburn's  Mental  was  jammed  in  last  of  all.  Into  its  pages 
she  thrust  a  handful  of  letters.  Then  away  she  fled  to  catch 
the  stagecoach  for  Cincinnati. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

THE  living-room  was  a  trifle  crowded.  Mercy,  still  in 
her  calash  and  her  best  alpaca,  sat  in  her  father's 
arms.  Over  the  two  of  them  surged  a  torrent  of  little  boys. 
Aunty,  wrapped  in  Joseph's  Coat,  lay  on  the  sofa.  Twonnet 
hung  about,  going  through  the  motions  of  cleaning  the 
hearth,  but  her  eyes  never  turned  from  her  darling,  who 
had  been  lost  and  now  was  found.  The  Captain  had  crept 
in  from  his  snug  fire-lit  little  lean-to.  Jo  Vanny  gloated 
from  the  doorway.  And  in  the  chimney-corner  sat  Mr.  Lin- 
coln, taller,  lanker,  more  soberly  kind  than  ever  before. 

Mercy  took  a  fresh  grip  around  Father's  neck.  She  felt 
herself  a  queen  surrounded  by  her  subjects.  All  her  subjects 
but  one. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Father.  Quick!" 

"There's  not  much  to  tell.  The  mob  was  masked.  Most 
of  them  were  drunk.  The  Clary  gang  was  back  of  it  all,  I 
don't  doubt.  They  didn't  attack  the  office  till  midnight. 
They  all  knew  that  I  was  sleeping  there  that  night,  for  it 
rained  so  hard,  I  did  not  try  to  go  home.  What  they  didn't 
know  was  that  Mr.  Lincoln  had  stopped  in  and  had  stayed 
the  night  with  me.  He  was  sleeping,  or  trying  to,  all  coiled 
up  on  the  table  in  his  big  shawl.  He'd  made  me  take  the 
lounge  myself." 

"And  I  was  enough  better  off,  too.  That  table  is  more 
than  six  feet  and  the  cot  only  about  five.  I  only  had  to 
double  my  legs  once."  Mr.  Lincoln  smiled  wryly. 

"It's  fortunate  for  me  that  you  were  there.  Legs  and 
all.  Mr.  Lincoln  saved  the  day,  as  well  as  my  life,  Mercy. 
When  the  mob  came  tearing  up  and  started  to  break  in  the 


216  THE    FATHER 

door  he  grabbed  the  man  with  the  maul,  threw  the  maul 
back  to  me,  and  then  slung  the  fellow  out  in  the  road.  He 
lit  in  a  mudhole.  I  dare  say  he's  there  yet.  Then  he  set  to 
work  on  the  next  two  men  with  that  maul.  They  were  so 
astonished,  they  fell  back  for  a  minute.  That  gave  us  time 
to  bolt  the  door  and  drag  the  press  against  it.  Then  Mr. 
Lincoln  gave  me  his  shotgun.  By  sheer  luck  he  had  brought 
it  along  and  it  was  loaded  and  ready  for  business.  And  he 
pulled  out  his  pistol  and  began  shooting  through  the  win- 
dow. He  grazed  two,  may  three.  I  heard  them  yelling  and 
cursing  as  they  ran.  That  sobered  the  mob.  They  drew  off 
and  I  thought  they  were  clearing  out. 

"But  Mr.  Lincoln  knew  better.  He  jerked  me  to  the 
back  window.  The  rest  of  the  crowd  had  slipped  around  and 
set  a  keg  of  turpentine  against  the  back  door.  Somebody 
tossed  in  a  lighted  splinter.  As  it  flared  up  and  gave  us  a 
good  aim  Mr.  Lincoln  and  I  handed  them  a  regular  broad- 
side. I  don't  believe  we  killed  anybody,  but  we  certainly 
broke  their  courage.  They  ran  like  kildeer.  Of  course  we 
had  to  run,  too,  for  the  back  wall  of  the  office  was  smok- 
ing. But  the  wood  was  too  wet  to  burn,  so  it  did  small 
damage.  We  found  a  bucket  of  tar  in  the  yard.  Easy  to 
guess  what  they  had  planned  to  do  with  it." 

Fury  poured  through  Mercy's  veins.  She  clutched  him 
tighter. 

"You  never  saw  such  floods  of  smoke,  though.  We  were 
blinded,  smothered.  And  the  front  door  was  barricaded,  so 
we  had  no  time  to  try  for  that.  So  we  scrambled  through  a 
window.  You  may  thank  Mr.  Lincoln  for  that  escape,  too." 

"Finish  your  story,  Mr.  Stafford.  I'm  in  your  debt  quite 
some,  remember.  Mind  how  I  stuck,  halfway  through? 
Your  father  had  to  scrunch  me  through  as  if  I  was  a  pig 
stuck  under  a  gate.  Scraped  me  considerable,  'specially 
my  knees  and  elbows." 


THE    FATHER  217 

"Well,  there'd  be  one  less  press  and  one  less  Abolitionist 
if  you  hadn't  stayed  that  night." 

"Fortunate  coincidence  my  being  there,  I  reckon." 

Mercy  looked  at  Mr.  Lincoln,  hard.  He  gazed  past  her 
at  the  wall.  His  face"  was  childlike  and  bland.  Much  too 
bland. 

"Going  to  repair  the  office,  Mr.  Stafford,  and  go  right 
on?" 

"What  else  would  I  do?  Think  I'd  lie  down  and  quit 
because  a  parcel  of  drunken  fools  tried  to  burn  me  out?" 

"Hardly.  But  local  opinion  isn't  altogether  with  you. 
Of  course  our  solid  citizens  have  all  stopped  in  and  assured 
you  that  they  regret  this  performance.  But  they're  shedding 
crocodile  tears,  Mr.  Stafford.  Down  inside  they're  saying, 
Well!  What  else  could  he  expect?'  " 

"Local    opinion   be "    Father   swallowed    hard.    "I 

know  well  enough  what  this  town  is  saying.  'Stafford  means 

well  but  he's  no  better  than  an  agitator '  They're  right, 

at  that.  I  am  an  agitator.  I  mean  to  keep  on  being  an  agi- 
tator till  the  last  horn  blows.  Wait  for  the  ballot  to  sweep 
out  slavery  if  you  choose.  You  may  as  well  start  your  sweep- 
ing with  Twonnet's  turkey  wing." 

"I  don't  figure  on  sweeping  out  slavery — yet.  But  I  do 
want  to  hold  it  down  inside  its  present  limits.  If  we  can 
keep  it  within  its  boundaries  of  to-day  it  will  in  time  become 
extinct." 

"Extinct?  Yes,  at  the  identical  time  that  this  nation  itself 
becomes  extinct !" 

"John,  Mercy  has  had  a  hard  journey.  Let  us  have  wor- 
ship, so  she  can  go  to  bed." 

"You're  right,  Aunty."  Father  motioned  to  Adoniram. 
"Bring  the  Bible,  son.  Now  whose  turn  is  it  to  read  the 
chapter?" 

"Mine!" 


218  THE    FATHER 

"  'Tis  not!  You  read  the  chapter  last  night!" 

Little  Thomas  scorned  to  argue.  He  made  a  flying  leap 
for  Seth.  Seth  was  ready  for  him.  With  one  accord  they 
clinched  and  went  to  the  floor. 

"Boys!  Stop  it.  Of  all  the  outlandish " 

"It's  Thomas's  turn."  Adoniram  separated  the  com- 
batants with  a  firm  impartial  hand.  "Seth  read  last  night. 
All  about  the  lazy  fig  tree  that  didn't  have  any  figs  on  it." 

"Thomas,  then.  Let  go  his  hair,  Seth.  Sit  up  and  behave, 
both  of  you,  or  I'll  give  the  Bible  to  Adoniram.  Do  you 
wish  to  choose  your  chapter,  Thomas?  Or  will  you  open  the 
Bible  at  random,  and  read  whatever  Scripture  your  hand 
falls  upon?" 

"I  want  to  take  a  chance,  please,  Thir."  Thomas's  eyes 
sparkled.  This  was  a  rare  privilege.  His  fat  paw  hovered 
anxiously  over  the  Book.  Finally,  portentously,  Thomas 
opened  to  a  certain  page. 

"It's  only  about  building  a  house,"  he  said  finally,  a  bit 
crest-fallen. 

"The  house  that  lummox  built  on  the  sand?  Any  fool 
would  know  better  than  that,"  Adoniram  snorted. 

"No.  It's  about  a  house  that's  divided " 

His  round  face  sobered.  The  firelight  shone  like  sun- 
shine on  his  yellow  head.  His  small  voice  rang  out,  serious 
and  sweet. 

"Every  kingdom  divided  against  itself  shall  be  brought 
to  desolation.  And  every  city  or  house  divided  against 
itself  shall  not  stand.   .   .   ." 

"What's  all  that,  Thomas?"  Mr.  Lincoln  looked  up 
sharply.  His  gaunt  head  reared,  his  deep-set  eyes  began  to 
shine. 

Obediently  Thomas  read  again. 

When  he  had  finished,  there  was  a  curious  silence. 

"Much  obliged,  son,"  Mr.  Lincoln  spoke  at  last.  On  his 


THE    FATHER  219 

dark  face  shone  a  queer  deep  satisfaction.  "Glad  you  hap- 
pened on  that  chapter  to-night.  Curious.  Seems  to  me  as  if 
I'd  been  hunting  for  that  identical  verse  my  whole  life 
long.  Curious.  .  .  ." 

Mercy  took  Thomas  to  bed  with  her  that  night.  She  had 
been  away  from  him  just  two  weeks.  But  she  could  not  get 
enough  of  him,  his  warm  little  body,  his  clinging  arms,  his 
sleepy  voice  against  her  cheek. 

"That  was  a  nice  chapter,  Thomas.  I'm  glad  it  pleased 
Mr.  Lincoln,  too." 

Thomas  reflected. 

"Father  thinks  Mr.  Lincoln  is  the  smartest  man  in  town. 
But  I  don't  think  he's  so  awful  bright.  He  said  he'd  been 
looking  for  that  text  all  his  life.  Yet  here  it  was  right  in 
the  Bible,  all  the  time." 

Mercy  hung  up  her  calash,  took  her  keys  from  her  hand- 
bag, pounced  on  her  little  trunk  and  searched  it  by  inches. 
She  shook  every  garment,  she  even  hunted  through  the 
chintz  trunk  lining.  Finally  she  sat  down  by  the  fire,  a  rosy 
image  of  despair.  The  soft  light  shone  on  her,  lighting  dark 
gold  sparks  in  her  thick  braids  and  warming  her  cheeks  to 
crimson.  She  reached  for  her  diary  and  her  pencil. 

"Maybe  if  I  write  things  down  in  my  diary,"  she  began, 
"it  will  help  me  remember  where  I  could  have  put  Lemuel 
G.  Crowther's  pestiferous  old  letter.  But  I'm  almost  sure 
I  left  it  at  Antioch.  I  shall  write  the  College  to-morrow 
and  ask  if  they  won't  please  find  it  and  send  it  on  to  me. 
Though  ten  to  one  it  has  been  thrown  away  or  burned. 

"I  never  did  behave  like  such  a  Lunkhead.  If  I'd  had 
any  sense,  I'd  have  read  that  letter  when  it  first  came.  But 
quick's  I  laid  eyes  on  it,  I  felt  sort  of  panicky.  To  be  sure, 
I  am  not  absolutely  promised  to  Lemuel.   I  told   him   I 


220  THE    FATHER 

would  think  about  it.  But  if  I  hadn't  been  such  a  greedy 
pig  about  wanting  his  old  ring  I  would  not  feel  so  scared. 
Nor  so  cheap,  either. 

"If  Richard  writes  to  me  the  minute  he  gets  back  from 
taking  those  runaways  north,  his  letter  ought  to  start  from 
Antioch  Tuesday.  Then  it  will  come  down  from  Cincin- 
nati on  the  first  packet.  If  the  boat  is  on  time,  I  should  have 
the  letter  by  next  Saturday.  I  hope  it  will  not  be  sent  by 
railroad,  it  takes  so  much  longer.  The  boat  is  safer,  too. 

"Richard  sneezed  twice  when  he  was  saying  good-by.  It 
may  be  just  the  way  Seth  sneezes  when  anything  exciting 
happens.  But  I  wish  I  had  told  him  to  be  sure  and  take  dry 
socks  along. 

"When  I  think  how  poor  Father  spent  all  those  60  dol- 
lars in  sending  me  to  college  for  just  these  two  weeks,  I 
simply  ache.  But  if  he  had  not  sent  me  I  would  never  have 
met  Richard.  And  if  I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  meet 
him,  I'd  lie  down  and  pass  away.  This  minute. 

"Seems  to  me  I  can  never  leave  Father  again.  It  is  too 
dangerous.  Just  let  that  mob  try  again  when  I'm  around. 

"Mr.  Lincoln  acts  so  innocent,  but  I  can  see  right 
through  him.  He'd  heard  a  rumor  that  the  mob  might 
come.  That's  why  he  stayed  all  night.  A-purpose  to  take 
care  of  Father.  That's  why  he  brought  his  gun,  all  loaded 
with  buckshot,  and  his  pistol,  too.  Coincidence,  nothing. 

"...  I  don't  see  how  I  am  going  to  manage  without 
him.  Perhaps  he  will  come  by  fall.  But  this  is  only  spring.  I 
can't  wait.  It's  just  as  if  I  had  a  nuby  wrapped  around  my 
head  and  couldn't  breathe. 

"Anyhow,  Father  couldn't  spare  me,  no  matter  if  I  did 
want  to  go  back  to  Antioch.  Repairing  the  office  will  cost 
maybe  as  much  as  fifteen  dollars.  And  what  with  Aunty  so 
feeble,  and  Jo  Vanny  all  banged  up,  and  poor  Captain  so 
lame,  and  the  garden  not  half  started! 


THE    FATHER  221 

"And  I  don't  believe  the  little  boys  have  had  one  real 
scrub  since  I  went  away.  Thomas's  finger-nails  are  scan- 
dalous, and  Seth's  cow-lick  stands  straight  up,  though  I 
have  poured  buckets  and  barrels  of  oil  on  it  for  years  and 
years  and  it  was  beginning  to  flatten  down.  And  the  house 
looks  as  if  the  barn  had  fallen  on  it.  No.  I've  got  to  stay 
right  here." 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

"The  glories  of  our  Blood  and  State 
Are  Shadows,  not  substantial  Things, 
There  is  no  Armor  against  Fate. 
Death  lays  his  icy  Hand  on  Kings. 
Scefter  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down. 
And  in  the  Dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  foor  crooked  Scythe  and  Spade  " 

DON'T  like  it  so  awful  much,"  quavered  poor 
•*■  Adoniram. 

"What  if  you  don't?"  thus  Aunty,  sternly.  "It's  elegant 
poetry.  It  wouldn't  be  in  The  Wreath  of  Poesy  if  it 
wasn't.  And  long's  you've  got  to  speak  a  piece  on  Friday 
you  may  as  well  take  this  one  and  be  done  with  it." 

Adoniram's  chin  wabbled.  Speaking  a  piece,  right  out 
loud,  before  the  whole  school,  was  a  serious  matter.  For 
Thomas,  speaking  pieces  was  all  in  the  day's  work.  He 
memorized  like  a  shot,  he  hopped  up  on  the  platform  like  a 
plump,  complacent  robin  and  chirped  out  The  Boy  Stood  on 
the  Burning  Deck  or  Marco  Bozzaris,  without  turning  a 
yellow  hair.  Seth,  too,  viewed  this  public  duty  without  dis- 
may. True,  Seth  always  bogged  and  stumbled,  but  the 
class  laughed  at  him  admiringly,  which  sent  him  to  his 
seat  convinced  that  he  was  a  master  of  oratory.  But  for 
Adoniram,  Friday  afternoon  spelled  linked  torture  long 
drawn  out. 

"I'd  ruther  sweep  the  whole  schoolhouse.  Scrub  it,  too," 
he  told  Mercy. 

Mercy  patted  his  head  absently,  her  eyes  on  the  road. 


THE    FATHER  223 

Father  would  be  back  from  town  before  long.  The  mail 
stage  was  due  to-day.  If  Richard  had  written  the  Saturday 
before — if  he  had  sent  the  letter  to  Cincinnati,  in  time  for 
the  west-bound  packet 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Donny.  You'll  speak  it  all  right." 

Donny's  eyes  filled. 

"I  want  to  sit  in  your  lap,"  he  sniffled.  He  heaved  up  his 
solid  little  chunk,  and  planted  himself  on  her  knee. 

Mercy  groaned  aloud. 

"Donny,  you  feel  like  the  Great  Pyramid."  But  she 
pulled  him  up  tight.  By  instinct,  she  knew  that  life  wasn't 
so  funny  for  an  overgrown  cub  who  had  been  little  enough 
to  cuddle  only  a  day  or  two  ago,  but  now  found  himself 
pushed  out  of  everybody's  lap  to  make  room  for  the  younger 
boys. 

"Want  to  speak  your  piece  for  me?" 

"N-no.  It  isn't  learned,  yet." 

"Then  you'd  better  learn  it.  Right  away.  Take  your 
book  up  to  the  loft  where  the  other  boys  won't  bother." 

Adoniram  went,  obediently.  He  sat  an  hour  in  the  chilly 
loft  wrapped  in  Joseph's  Coat  and  worked  on  his  piece  line 
by  line.  Even  the  separate  lines  spoken  alone  made  his  nose 
tingle  and  his  eyes  feel  hot,  but  he  stuck  to  it  resolutely. 
At  last  he  found  that  he  could  speak  the  resounding  meas- 
ures without  one  choke. 

"I  guess  I  can  get  through  it,"  he  assured  himself,  and 
so  took  heart  of  grace. 

Friday  morning  came  inexorably.  The  pitiless  hours  raced 
on.  Ten — eleven — twelve — the  two  younger  brothers 
grabbed  their  dinner-pails  and  fled,  whooping.  But  Donny 
wasn't  interested  in  turnovers  and  ginger-cake.  One — two 
— three 

At  four  o'clock,  Seth  and  Thomas  hurtled  into  the 
kitchen. 


224                            THE    FATHER 
"Donny  said  his  piece,  and  then 


"No,  siree,  he  did  not  say  it!  He  tried.  But  he  couldn't 
say  only  the  first  two  lines " 

Plunging  after  them,  came  Adoniram.  His  face  was  so 
white  that  his  cinnamon  freckles  stood  out  in  relief.  His 
lips  quivered.  His  hazel  eyes  widened  with  helpless  misery. 
Valiantly  he  tried  to  answer  Mercy's  question.  But  the 
words  were  strangled  on  his  mouth.  With  a  drowning 
gulp  he  fled.  You  heard  his  copper-toes  go  clattering  up  the 
loft  ladder. 

"What  under  the  sun "  But  even  Mercy  couldn't 

know.  Even  Mercy  couldn't  understand  that  these  tre- 
mendous magnificent  words  were  too  sublime,  too  cruelly 
exalting  for  a  little  boy,  that  their  relentless  majesty  trod 
him  into  the  dust,  that  he  went  down  like  a  little  defeated 
army  before  their  trampling  splendor. 

Presently  she  slipped  up  the  loft  ladder.  Donny  lay 
curled  in  a  ball,  Joseph's  Coat  pulled  over  his  head.  She 
started  to  speak.  Then  suddenly  she  knew  better.  She  lay 
down  beside  him  and  pulled  Joseph's  Coat  and  the  poor 
little  shaking  nubbin  into  her  arms.  She  did  not  say  a  word. 
She  did  not  kiss  him.  Only  she  held  him  tight  till  that 
quivering  little  nubbin  went  limp,  till  she  knew  he  had 
slipped  off  into  exhausted  sleep. 

After  a  while  her  practiced  ear  realized  that  downstairs 
there  sounded  a  portentous  hubbub.  Probably  that  was 
Father  home  with  the  mail.  But  why  the  uproar? 

Cautiously  she  slipped  her  arm  from  under  Donny.  Cau- 
tiously she  crept  down  the  ladder.  Stars  lit  in  her  eyes.  Her 
heart  began  to  pound.  Almost  a  fortnight  since  she  had 
had  a  letter.  Surely,  oh,  surely 

As  she  reached  the  kitchen  Seth  banged  in.  His  voice 
awoke  the  echoes. 

"Mercy!    Come,  quick.  You've  got  company!    A  great 


THE    FATHER  225 

big  fellow  so  tall  he  bumped  his  head  on  the  lintel  and  all 
dressed  up  in  store  clothes.  He  used  to  go  to  school  with  you 
at  Antioch!" 

Then,  sibilant  and  terrifying,  Aunty's  voice: 

"You,  Seth!  What  if  Mercy  has  got  a  beau?  You  needn't 
tell  the  township." 

He  was  waiting  for  her.  Waiting,  right  here  in  the  liv- 
ing-room, with  the  children's  arrowheads  and  playthings 
scattered  about  and  the  hearth  untidy  with  ashes.  Muddy 
tracks  all  over  the  rag  rugs,  muddy  little  shoes  drying  on 
the  fender,  small  nameless  garments  damp  from  the  wash 
on  every  chairback,  Father's  candid  yellow  undershirt, 
freshly  ironed,  hung  out  to  mend.  A  great  bowl  of  bread 
dough  in  its  linen  nightcap  was  put  to  rise  in  the  chimney 
corner.  Thus  was  set  the  stage  for  the  coming  of  Henry 
Esmond,  for  Sir  Lancelot,  for  the  Prince  of  Dreams! 

But  Mercy  tripped  in  airy  and  serene.  It  was  only  when 
she  saw  him  that  her  heart  caught  in  her  throat.  The  room 
blurred  and  glimmered.  For  he  was  so  much  taller  than  she 
remembered  him,  he  was  so  glorious.  A  curly-brim  beaver 
crowned  his  young  royal  head,  a  beaver  a  size  too  large, 
so  that  it  dipped  over  his  ears,  but  was  all  the  more  regal 
for  that.  His  new  suit  was  to  her  eyes  a  mantle  of  splendor, 
although  it  had  been  cut  so  thriftily  that  it  pinched  his 
broad  chest  and  reared  up  the  back  and  climbed  affrighted 
from  powerful  young  wrists  and  muscular  ankles.  His 
suffocating  stock,  his  cruel  high  boots!  All  this  glory,  all 
this  young  majesty,  to  stoop  his  lordly  head  and  enter  her 
humble  door! 

No  sooner  were  they  seated  than  the  march  past  began. 
Of  what  avail,  she  reflected  bitterly,  to  be  the  lady  sought 
by  this  most  noble  knight  if  the  entire  population  of  south- 
ern Illinois  must  tread  upon  each  other's  heels  to  enter  and 
to  gaze? 


226  THE    FATHER 

First  came  the  Captain.  The  Captain  had  his  own  snug 
little  room,  his  big,  warm  stove,  his  turkey-red  rocker. 
There  he  sat  and  dozed  contentedly  day  after  day.  But  to- 
day for  the  first  time  in  weeks  he  must  wander  placidly  in 
attired  in  extreme  neglige  and  fondly  clasping  his  villain- 
ous old  pipe  and  sit  down  cheerfully  to  help  entertain  the 
guest.  In  meticulous  detail,  he  described  the  battle  of  Lake 
Erie  as  beheld  by  his  own  eyes.  After  him,  strolled  Mouser. 
Mouser  was  shedding.  Smug  and  condescending,  he  strolled 
up  to  the  guest  and  rubbed  against  his  leg,  leaving  on  the 
black  broadcloth  a  generous  tribute  of  white  hairs.  Then  he 
sat  down  facing  him  and  viewed  him  with  an  unblinking 
stare. 

After  that  Adoniram  bolted  in  refreshed  and  rambunc- 
tious, Trouble  bounding  at  his  heels.  He  murmured  a 
shocked — "Gosh,  company!"  and  fled  as  one  who  flees  the 
plague.  Presently  the  kitchen  door  creaked.  Twonnet's 
scowling  eye  appeared  at  the  crack.  Forthwith  she  entered, 
turkey  wing  and  dustpan  in  hand. 

"Never  mind  the  hearth,  Twonnet." 

This  was  meant  for  dismissal.  Twonnet  did  not  accept 
dismissal  readily.  Gloomily  she  laid  down  the  turkey-wing. 
Gloomily  she  crouched  in  a  far  corner.  Her  black  brows 
drew  into  an  ominous  line,  her  black  eyes  were  opaque 
and  sullen.  Her  eyes  never  left  Richard's  face.  In  them 
flared  an  instant  comprehension,  a  blistering  jealousy  so 
dark  that  it  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  air,  a  fury  made  visible. 

Soon  Jo  Vanny  limped  in.  At  sight  of  the  two,  Jo  Vanny 
felt  no  jealous  pang.  Not  he!  True  child  of  his  golden 
Sicily,  he  knew  a  lover  when  he  saw  one  and  rejoiced  in 
him  openly.  He  beamed  on  them  and  made  happy  little 
noises  in  his  throat.  He  sat  down  on  the  floor,  tucked  his 
ragged  toes  into  the  warm  ashes  and  smiled  radiantly  on. 
He  looked  a  faun,  stopping,  with  eerie  curiosity,  above  the 


THE    FATHER  227 

hearth  fire  that  would  never  be  his,  and  poised  like  a  wild 
thing  for  instant  flight.  But  flight,  alas,  was  the  last  thing 
in  Jo  Vanny's  thoughts. 

Ten  minutes  more  and  in  charged  Thomas,  a  mammoth 
splinter  imbedded  in  his  fat  chapped  thumb  and  roaring  to 
high  heaven.  He  hurled  himself  into  Mercy's  arms.  Hotly 
embarrassed  but  anxious  to  aid,  the  Prince  bent  his  lordly 
head,  and  helped  dig  out  the  splinter.  Thomas  showed  scant 
gratitude.  His  sobs  dwindled  to  snuffles,  but  he  sat  on,  suck- 
ing his  thumb.  Occasionally  he  turned  to  Richard,  glared, 
and  stuck  out  a  small  lightning  tongue. 

Out  of  all  her  suffocating  household  only  Cyrus  had  the 
manners  to  ignore  the  two.  Calm,  aloof,  goggle-eyed, 
round  and  round  his  bowl  he  swam.  Not  once  did  he 
glance  their  way.  Mercy  felt  a  gloomy  gratitude  to  Cyrus. 

Last  of  all  came  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  was  in  a  large,  har- 
monious mood.  He  threw  off  his  gray  shawl,  settled  down 
before  the  fire,  and  remarked  that  this  was  good  courtin' 
weather;  then  he  devoted  half  an  hour  or  so  to  kindly  in- 
quiries about  Antioch  and  Mr.  Mann.  This  attended  to,  he 
observed — "Well,  folks,  there's  another  room  in  this  house. 
I  move  the  Court  adjourns  to  the  kitchen  and  leaves  this 
bill  in  committee."  Whereat  he  shooed  out  the  whole 
roomful. 

All  but  Thomas.  Thomas  looked  up  at  Mr.  Lincoln. 
This  rock  shall  fly  from  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I,  said 
little  Thomas's  icy  glare. 

As  they  dragged  unwillingly  away,  the  last  blow  fell. 

Mercy  glanced  up.  In  the  old  eagle  mirror  she  saw  her 
full  reflection.  A  sick  shudder  ran  through  her. 

No  use.  No  hope.  She  could  never  hold  up  her  head  again. 
Wreck  of  matter.  Crash  of  worlds. 

Some  time  after  supper  she  crept  up  to  the  loft,  and  took 
down  her  diary. 


228  THE    FATHER 

"Richard  Harrison  came  to-day.  I  presume  he  will 
never  come  to  see  me  again.  When  I  think  about  it  I  wish  I 
could  lie  down  and  die.  All  the  folks  came  in  and  gawped 
at  him,  exactly  as  if  he  was  stuck  up  at  ten  cents  a  look. 
And  Twonnet  sat  like  a  bump  on  a  log  and  scowled  at 
him.  And  Thomas  bellowed  and  stuck  out  his  tongue.  And 
considering  the  way  I  looked  and  always  do,  he  will  con- 
sider me  a  slattern  and  a  Savage.  First  time  he  ever  laid 
eyes  on  me,  I  had  on  my  nightgown  and  Joseph's  Coat,  with 
the  casket  lining  sawed  out  of  it,  and  my  hair  all  pigtails. 
Next  time  my  shoestring  broke.  And  to-day  it  was  so  chilly 
I  had  on  my  flannel  petticoat,  and  when  Thomas  shovelled 
himself  into  my  lap  his  heel  caught  the  tilter  of  my  hoop, 
and  I  didn't  know  till  I  looked  in  the  mirror  that  it  had 
hiked  up  till  you  could  see  a  whole  inch  of  stocking,  and 
the  red  petticoat  scallop,  too. 

"Of  course  he  cannot  wish  to  continue  his  acquaintance 
with  such  a  Slap-Dash  Sally-Ann.  I  cannot  ask  it.  Never." 

From  the  room  below  came  Thomas's  voice. 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Lincoln,  sir,  'Doniram  up  and  learned  his 
piece  slick  as  a  whistle.  But  when  he  tried  to  say  it  he  just 
choked  up  and  bawled  and  ran." 

"Let's  see  his  piece.  'Scepter  and  Crown '  Um.  Can't 

say  I'm  surprised  at  'Doniram.  If  I  tried  to  speak  that  first 
verse  I'd  choke  up  and  bawl,  too." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  there  are  some  things  that  are  too  big  and 
solemn  and  splendid  for  common  ordinary  folks  like  me 
to  measure  up  to.  Yes,  I  know  just  how  Donny  felt.  When 
I  was  along  nine  I  found  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  in  a  barrel 
of  old  books  that  some  settler  had  left  at  the  tavern.  I  can 
remember  to-day  how  those  harpings  and  hallelujahs  went 


THE    FATHER  229 

thundering  through  me.  I  sniveled  and  sniveled  and  finally 
I  went  and  crawled  under  the  woodshed." 

"Well,  I  never!"  Through  Thomas's  eyes,  you  could 
see  Mr.  Lincolin's  pedestal  tottering  beneath  him.  "Do  you 
ever  write  poetry?" 

Mr.  Lincoln  cocked  a  glimmering  eye  towards  Father. 

"If  I  ever  did  fall  into  poetry,  Thomas,  I'll  wager  mine 
would  bring  tears  from  a  harder  heart  than  yours." 

Up  in  her  loft  Mercy  turned  a  fresh  page. 

"He  stayed  a  good  while  after  they  were  gone,  though. 
All  but  Thomas.  And  he  got  redder  and  redder,  and  I  knew 
he  wanted  to  say  something,  but  I  simply  could  not  shake 
Thomas  loose.  Finally  I  said  Maybe  I'd  make  pancakes  for 
supper  if  I  had  some  obliging  boy  to  make  them  for.  And 
Thomas  said,  Buckwheat,  with  maple  sugar?  and  I  said 
[Yes,  so  Thomas  backed  out,  but  he  kept  his  tongue  sticking 
out  at  Richard  all  the  way.  I  fear  Thomas  will  grow  up  a 
bargaining  Jacob.  Then  Richard  said,  Where  is  that 
daguerrotype,  and  I  hated  to  tell  him  that  it  would  be 
unseemly  for  me  to  have  one  taken  for  him  as  long  as  an- 
other man  is  engaged  to  me,  and  he  began  to  tease,  only 
very  dignafied.  But  right  then,  Father  came  in.  I  guess 
Father  had  had  a  bad  day  for  he  looked  awfully  tired,  and 
acted  grumpier  than  Thomas,  even,  and  did  not  so  much 
as  ask  Richard  to  supper.  If  it  was  anybody  but  Father,  I'd 
say  he  acted  snippy,  but  Father  never  is  snippy.  He  doesn't 
know  how.  So  Richard  went  away.  But  as  he  went  down 
the  steps,  he  said,  May  I  call  when  you  are  not  so  ab- 
sorbed? and  I  said,  Yes.  Much  chance  he'll  ever  darken 
this  door  again ! 

"I  cannot  think  of  any  Spiritual   Meditations  to-night, 


230  THE    FATHER 

except  what  Job  says,  in  Chapter  Seven.  My  days  are 
swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle,  and  are  spent  without 
hope. 

It  was  late  afternoon  and  raining,  a  cold,  raw,  dismal 
rain.  Father  was  at  work  in  the  miry  garden.  Twonnet  had 
plowed,  the  Captain  had  planted,  now  Father  was  weeding 
in  between  the  drooping  little  stalks  of  corn.  Somehow, 
thought  Father,  it  had  been  always  cold,  always  raining,  this 
long,  uncertain  spring.  His  fine  shoulders  stooped.  His  eyes 
were  sullen. 

Here  he  had  snatched  his  girl  away  from  Green  River, 
away  from  the  risk  of  a  too-early  marriage  to  Lemuel  G. 
Crowther,  that  young  lummox.  Then,  when  Lemuel 
loomed  again  on  her  horizon,  he  had  sent  her  away  to 
sanctuary  at  Antioch,  only  to  throw  her  straight  into  the 
arms  of  this  dashing  young  jackanapes  of  a  Richard  Har- 
rison.— Oh,  perhaps  it  was  not  just,  to  blame  the  boy.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  his  body  moved  slim  and  sinewy  as  a 
young  panther's,  that  his  mouth  was  the  mouth  of  Buona- 
rotti's  David,  that  his  bold  head  was  crowned  by  a  cap  of 
lusterless  waving  black,  miles  from  the  perfumed  and  glis- 
tening brow  of  Lemuel  G.  Crowther.  But  the  audacity  of 
him,  the  devil-may-care  bravado  of  him!  How  dared  he 
force  his  acquaintance  on  Mercy  Rose?  For  her  to  help  tie 
up  his  broken  head  that  night  was  hardly  an  act  of  en- 
couragement. Mere  common  humanity.  Yet,  doubly  inso- 
lent, he  must  follow  her  here,  thrust  himself,  unbidden, 
inside  her  father's  door! 

Anger  shook  him.  No,  not  just  anger.  The  pitiful  rea- 
sonless jealousy  of  the  father  who  sees  himself  forgotten, 
left  behind.   .   .   . 

"Father!  Oh,  Father!" 

She  was  coming  to  him,  racing  down  the  path,  'Doni- 


THE    FATHER  231 

ram's  jacket  flung  scarf-wise  over  her  head.  She  threw  up 
her  arm,  pulled  his  head  down  and  gave  it  a  vehement 
squeeze. 

u  'Scuse,  please.  I  haven't  seen  you  since  dinner-time. 
Listen."  Her  cheek  to  his,  he  could  not  see  the  mischief  in 
her  eyes.  "A  man  just  stopped  by  and  asked,  could  he  stay 
the  night.  He's  a  dripping  sop,  and  tired,  and  I  think  he's 
hungry,  too.  Shall  I  bring  him  in?" 

"Why,  of  course.  Get  my  dry  clothes  out  of  the  chest. 
Fix  him  something  hot,  and  make  up  the  fire.  Did  he  tell 
his  name?" 

"N-no,  sir,  he  didn't  mention  it.  But  I  think  it's  Emer- 
son." 

"Emerson!  You  imp!" 

As  he  dropped  his  hoe  and  turned  toward  the  house, 
Emerson  came  down  the  path,  hands  outstretched.  At  sight 
of  his  flapping  drenched  coat,  his  bony  ascetic  face,  his 
shining  eyes,  the  gray  day  cleared  and  shone. 

"Why  couldn't  you  let  me  have  word  ahead?"  Father 
gripped  his  shoulders  hungrily.  "You  know  I'd  have  come 
into  town  to  meet  you " 

"Because  I  didn't  want  you  to  try  it.  Our  stage  was  six 
hours  late.  We  brought  all  the  top-soil  in  Sangamon 
County  on  our  wheels."  He  shook  off  his  wet  greatcoat, 
took  off  his  rusty  boots  before  the  fire  and  put  on  the  rusty 
carpet-slippers  that  Thomas  brought  him.  "Wish  my  Con- 
cord garden  had  some  of  this  rain." 

"How  is  your  garden?  Incidentally,  how  is  your  family? 
And  all  the  friends  in  Concord?" 

"Flourishing  when  I  left.  Especially  Louisa  Alcott.  She 
sold  a  serial  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  the  other  day 
and  the  family  is  rolling  in  her  ill-gotten  wealth.  Bronson 
Alcott  protests  that  there  is  not  a  word  of  constructive 
philosophy  in  the  entire  story,  but  he  rolls,   too.   He  and 


232  THE    FATHER 

Hawthorne  both  promised  to  drop  in  and  tend  garden  while 
I'm  away.  If  talk  would  weed  beans  I'd  have  a  sovereign 
crop." 

"My,  it's  good  to  see  somebody  from  home.  No  matter 
who."  Aunty  stooped  at  the  hearth  to  heat  a  kettle  of  veni- 
son broth.  She  beamed  up  at  him.  "And  where  have  you 
been?" 

"Lecturing.  Iowa  and  Illinois.  I've  given  eighteen  lec- 
tures so  far,  with  an  average  of  seventeen  people  at  each 
lecture." 

"A  good  turnout.  Considering  you're  so  unorthodox. 
Now,  Mercy,  you  mix  up  some  batter-bread  and  send 
Twonnet  to  kill  a  couple  of  chickens,  and  I'll  open  my 
gingered  pears  and  heat  up  a  mince  pie.  It'll  be  pioneer 
food,  Mr.  Emerson,  but  maybe  you  can  make  out  a  meal." 

As  they  sat  down  to  their  humble  pioneer  supper  Mr. 
Lincoln  dripped  in.  He  was  soggy-wet,  splashed  with  mud, 
gray  with  fatigue.  But  at  sight  of  Mr.  Emerson,  he  fairly 
blazed  alive. 

Not  one  of  the  three  men  ever  forgot  that  night.  The 
hours  marked  for  Mr.  Lincoln  a  high  tide.  He  listened  to 
Father  and  to  Mr.  Emerson  with  a  queer  puzzled  wist- 
f  ulness.  Always  he  had  handled  his  slow,  cold,  logical  mind 
as  a  sculptor  would  handle  his  chisel.  But  never  had  he 
dreamed  of  using  it  to  carve  such  airy  arabesque  as  this. 

For  these  were  men  who  used  their  fine  intelligence  not 
just  as  a  laboring  mechanism  for  reasoning,  but  as  a  gay 
diversion!  Like  hounds  they  raced,  they  doubled  on  their 
courses,  they  romped  in  a  frolic  of  thought  that  held  mo- 
ments of  friendly  malice.  One  would  nose  out  an  idea,  the 
other  pounce  on  it  instantly,  worry  it,  harry  it.  They  used 
their  swiftest  reasoning,  their  keenest  logic,  merely  to 
stimulate  each  other.  They  assumed  outrageous  premises, 
then  defended  their  moment's  whim  as  frantically  as  if  they 


THE    FATHER  233 

defended  their  altars  and  their  fires.  They  brought  up  their 
light  guns,  their  heavy  guns,  their  earth-shaking  artil- 
lery.  .   .  . 

Mr.  Lincoln  sat  by,  delighting  in  every  sally,  yet  curi- 
ously, sadly,  the  outsider.  For  his  own  deep  understanding, 
his  hard-won  culture,  he  had  fought  with  blood  and  tears 
and  hunger.  Could  there  be  men  to  whom  this  riches  of 
learning  could  mean  just  a  jeweled  favor  to  pin  on  a  coat? 

Suddenly  Father  glanced  Mr.  Lincoln's  way.  Quick 
shame  awoke  in  him.  How  stupidly  he  had  neglected  this 
beloved  guest! 

"Mr.  Lincoln,  you  are  not  doing  your  share.  Here  we 
sit,  deciding  all  the  problems  of  the  universe.  Come  on  and 
do  your  part." 

Mr.  Lincoln  grinned. 

"I'm  playing  audience,  thank  you.  And  enjoying  it.  I 
never  knew  till  to-night  that  folks  could  have  so  much  fun 
with  their  minds.  You've  made  me  sweat  to  keep  up  with 
you." 

"You'll  make  us  sweat  when  it  comes  to  arguing  reali- 
ties." 

"Here,  Stafford,  don't  pull  a  long  face  like  that.  I've 
had  so  many  hard  knocks  the  last  few  years  that  you  can't 
know  what  it  means  to  slip  out  of  the  harness  like  this  and 
forget.  Forget  what  a  worthless  old  failure  I  am.  Well,  it 
does  me  no  end  of  good  to  get  away." 

He  pulled  a  long  face  then  himself.  A  bitter  long  face. 
Harsh  lines  grooved  themselves  around  his  mouth.  Black 
discouragement  shadowed  his  eyes. 

"If  you're  a  failure,"  Father  spoke  sharply,  "then  Mr. 
Emerson  and  I  are  failures  and  worse.  Here  goes  Mr. 
Emerson  trudging  around  the  country,  trying  to  wake  the 
people  up  with  his  books  and  his  lectures.  When  he's  lucky 
maybe  seventeen  people  turn  out  to  listen  to  him.  Here  I 


234  THE    FATHER 

go,  bungling  away  at  my  newspaper.  If  I  ever  had  as  many 
as  seven  readers  who  agreed  with  me  all  at  once,  I'd  feel 
I  was  a  rival  to  Timon  of  Athens  in  his  heyday." 

Mr.  Lincoln  grimaced. 

"You  can  count  me  as  one  reader  who  agrees  with  you. 
Almost  to  the  last  word." 

"Not  on  the  supreme  issue,  Mr.  Lincoln." 

Now  Mr.  Emerson  rose  up,  whimsical,  commanding. 

"Let  us  have  no  slavery  talk,  gentlemen.  Let  us  cease 
from  our  labors  this  one  night  and  forget." 

"I  only  wish  we  could  forget."  This  from  Father. 

The  three  men  stared  at  each  other.  Again  it  was  as  if 
an  unseen  Presence  had  put  its  eternal  question.  The 
anguished  need  of  their  vast,  blind,  tortured  nation  beat 
down  on  them  like  the  winnowing  of  mighty  wings. 

Then  Father  spoke  again.  Bitter,  disheartened  words. 

"It  does  not  seem  as  if  we  three  could  ever  amount  to 
much.  For  by  our  own  mouths  we  are  failures  at  our  own 
appointed  work.  How  can  we  ever  hope  to  solve  the  great- 
est problem  of  our  day?" 

Nobody  spoke.  Nobody  tried  to  answer  him.  Uncon- 
sciously the  men  drew  closer  together.  Three  dead-tired, 
middle-aged  men.  Three  failures. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

MR.  LINCOLN  came  riding  down  the  turnpike,  his 
tall,  battered  stovepipe  pushed  back  from  his  face, 
his  gray  shawl  swung  over  his  shoulders.  It  had  rained  all 
day  and  the  roads  were  mire.  The  prairie  swales  were 
flooded,  the  creek  half  a  mile  away  was  a  rushing  torrent. 
Old  Tom's  hoofs  churned  and  splashed  with  every  step. 
But  Mr.  Lincoln's  eyes  were  placid  with  contentment.  He 
had  just  won  the  Harkness  case  which  had  cost  him  weeks 
on  weeks  of  steady  work.  Lloyd  Harkness,  brimful  of  grati- 
tude for  the  farm  that  Mr.  Lincoln  had  saved  for  him, 
had  unstrapped  his  thin  wallet  and  urged  on  him  the  full 
amount  of  his  fee.  His  wife,  a  worn  gentlewoman,  had 
sobbed  out  words  of  gratitude  that  had  brought  the  red  to 
his  gaunt  neck.  It  was  pretty  fine  to  be  able  to  help  a  de- 
serving pair  like  the  Harknesses.  They  had  paid  a  gener- 
ous fee,  too.  Twenty-eight  dollars  and  fifty  cents.  This 
wasn't  such  a  bad  world,  after  all. 

Under  his  breath  he  began  to  hum  his  beloved  song — 
"Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud " 

On  the  road  ahead,  stood  a  covered  wagon.  Not  an 
opulent  affair:  a  small  vehicle  half  the  size  of  the  broad 
Conestogas  and  forlornly  ill-equipped. 

"Reckon  they're  stuck  in  this  mud,"  he  thought. 

He  prodded  up  Old  Tom,  and  rode  alongside. 

"Anything  I  can  do,  folks?" 

The  canvas  parted.  Two  ashen  young  faces  stared  out  at 
him.  A  girl,  her  face  drawn,  her  eyes  swollen:  a  boy,  a 
frail  and  bewildered  young  fellow,  holding  a  small  box, 
wrapped  in  linen.  They  had  none  of  the  gay  pluck  of  the 


236  THE    FATHER 

average  young  pioneer.  They  stared  out  at  Mr.  Lincoln 
like  two  beaten  children. 

"What's  up?  Tell  me.  Maybe  I  can  be  of  some  use." 

"Nobody  can  be  of  any  use."  The  girl's  face  was  ter- 
rible. "For  we  daren't  wait  a  day,  we've  got  to  join  our 
wagon  train  at  St.  Louis,  and  go  on  to  Kansas  with  them. 
And   they  ain't  no   way   we  can  lay  him   in  consecrated 

ground We  got  to  leave  him  here  all  alone,  on  the 

prairie." 

"Mary  pity  women!"  The  poor  young  husband  bowed 
his  head.  He  was  ghastly  with  the  agony  of  her  agony.  Mr. 
Lincoln's  face  was  as  ashen  as  her  own. 

"You  poor  child,  your  baby  shall  lie  in  a  churchyard. 
You  shan't  have  to  leave  him  alone." 

"But  there  isn't  a  burying  ground  in  miles,  except  across 
the  creek.  And  look  at  that  creek!  Out  of  its  banks  and  a 
current  that  would  sweep  a  horse  clean  off  its  feet.  Quick- 
sands, too.  The  folks  down  to  the  Crossroads  warned  us. 
They  'lowed  we  can  leave  my  baby  in  their  dooryard,  and 
they'll  take  care  of  his  grave,  their  own  selves.  But  maybe 
they'll  have  to  give  up  their  land,  come  another  year.  I 
can't  go  away  and  leave  him  that-away.  I  can't!" 

"No.  And  you  shall  not.  Wait." 

He  rode  away,  back  to  the  Crossroads.  He  stopped  at  the 
blacksmith  shop,  called  the  smith  and  his  burly  son  to  the 
door.  Presently  the  three  rode  back  to  the  wagon. 

"Your  team  and  the  wagon  will  have  to  stay  here.  But 
we've  fixed  it  up.  Here,  you  fellows  take  down  the 
wagon  seat  and  put  the  mother  on  it.  You  can  swim  across 
the  creek  and  float  her  between  you.  I'll  wade  across  be- 
cause I'm  the  tallest,  and  carry  him.  I'll  manage  all  right 
if  the  water  doesn't  reach  my  shoulders.  Yes,  I  know  there's 
quicksands,  but  I'll  dodge  'em.  Got  to.  Easy  now!" 

It  was  a  long  mile,  across  the  flooded  lands.  The  girl 


THE    FATHER  237 

never  spoke.  She  sat  there,  high  on  the  wagon  seat,  carved 
of  grief. 

The  two  men  bogged  and  floundered  across  to  the  creek, 
the  girl  lifted  between  them. 

When  Mr.  Lincoln  reached  the  slippery  bank,  he  halted, 
studied  the  swollen,  rushing  stream.  He  lifted  the  pine  box 
with  its  precious  bit  of  dust.  He  shoved  on,  slipping,  splash- 
ing. The  water  was  up  to  his  chest.  It  crept  an  inch  higher — 
another 

At  last  the  girl  and  her  carriers  reached  the  bank  ten 
yards  below  him.  Mr.  Lincoln  waded  and  scrambled  up  a 
steep  miry  shelf.  Finally  he  stood  on  safe  higher  ground. 
He  stood  there  a  minute,  still  holding  the  pine  box  high. 
Mud  and  water  dripped  from  him:  he  looked  like  a  tired 
scarecrow.  Quiet,  grotesque,  sublime. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

*  '  T  WILL  say  for  Richard  Harrison  that  he  knows  what 
A  he  wants,"  wrote  Mercy  in  her  diary  that  night. 
"Talk  about  impudence!  Here  I  thought  I  had  such  a 
grand  letter,  yet  when  I  opened  it,  it  held  just  four  big 
pages  of  foolscap,  with  not  one  word  written  on  them, 
except  a  line  at  the  top  of  each  page.  "Don't  forget  the 
daguerreotype.  I'm  starved  for  it.  Better  send  me  two 
daguerreotypes,  I  might  lose  one  of  them."  I  suppose  I've 
got  to  have  one  taken,  as  long  as  he's  so  pigheaded  about  it. 
Anyway,  Father  says  that  the  daguerreotype  wagon  has 
come  to  town.  I'll  go  in  before  long,  and  see  what  it  costs. 
I'll  take  Thomas  along.  He's  been  so  good  lately,  it  scares 
me.  But  how  can  I  ever  pay  for  a  picture?  I  just  know  it 
will  be  all  of  a  dollar.  Maybe  a  dollar  and  a  half." 

She  put  down  her  pen.  She  burrowed  into  the  little  trunk 
that  held  all  her  choicest  possessions.  If  she  could  possibly 
manage  it,  she'd  have  him  make  two.  Then  she'd  hide  one 
away,  to  surprise  Father  on  his  birthday. 

But  she  searched  the  trunk  in  vain.  Trinkets,  bits  of  old 
lace,  a  broken  rose-coral  necklace,  two  seed-pearl  bracelets 
with  half  the  pearls  out,  a  filigree  bouquet  holder,  three 
Bible  bookmarks.  And  not  one  single  copper  cent. 

Finally  she  pulled  out  a  tiny  shagreen  case.  Grand- 
father's snurT-box.  Within  it  was  a  brooch.  An  awful 
brooch.  It  was  of  black  and  gold  enamel,  containing  a 
wreath,  constructed  from  a  lock  of  Great-grandfather 
Davenport's  hair. 


THE    FATHER  239 

"If  I  dared  ask  the  daguerrier  to  take  this  pin  in  ex- 
change. Maybe " 

But  what  an  act  of  blasphemy,  to  put  your  great-grand- 
father's ringlets  to  such  base  uses! 

"I  suppose  this  is  a  judgment  on  me,  because  I  am  sort 
of  playing  fast  and  loose  with  Lemuel.  Well,  I  never  was 
really  engaged  to  Lemuel,  at  that.  Maybe  it  was  un- 
womanly of  me,  to  treat  him  as  I  have  done.  But  if  I  just 
had  a  dollar  and  twenty-five  cents " 

Rainbows  dazzled  on  her  wet  lashes  as  she  blew  out  her 
candle. 

The  great  spring  freshets  had  come,  a  tempest  of  rain 
and  wind;  then  followed  a  tempest  of  splendor,  the  prairie 
spring.  The  sun  stood  high  in  cloudless  blue,  the  earth  was 
a  tapestry  unrolled  of  emerald  and  rose  and  deepening 
sapphire.  Look  to  the  south,  and  as  far  as  you  could  see, 
the  flag  flowers  spread  their  azure  carpet.  Look  to  the  east, 
and  the  marsh  was  a  sheet  of  pure  gold.  And  all  Mercy's 
hours  struck  golden  bells,  all  her  days  were  light  and  flame. 
Richard's  letters  came  as  if  on  wings.  She  read  them,  hid 
them,  drew  them  out  when  the  household  was  asleep,  read 
them  again,  again.  They  were  Richard  himself,  those  let- 
ters. They  were  tender  and  arrogant,  insolent  and  shy. 
She  knew  them  by  heart,  every  word.  She  told  them  over, 
beads  upon  her  stainless  rosary.  Reading  those  letters,  she 
would  stop  suddenly,  and  run  to  hug  the  nearest  little 
brother,  regardless  of  his  protests,  the  tenderest  pity  aching 
in  her  heart.  Poor,  poor  defrauded  little  boys!  If  they 
had  only  been  born  girls,  what  ecstasy  might  be  in  store 
for  them! 

Always   from    those   letters  shone   the    light  that   never 


240  THE    FATHER 

was  on  land  or  sea.  And  always  at  the  end,  a  sentence  that 
caught  and  tore  her  heart  with  agony.  For  into  her  garden 
of  love  had  crept  black  fear. 

"They  all  but  got  me,  the  other  night.  I  was  driving 
some  refugees  down  the  Ridge  road,  and  a  gang  jumped 
out  on  me.  I  had  good  fresh  horses,  and  a  light  load.  I 
reckon  that's  all  that  saved  yours  truly.  Of  course  they 
fired  on  me.  Took  a  slice  off  my  left  ear.  If  I  couldn't 
shoot  straighter  than  that,  I'd  practice  on  a  barn  door. 
You  are  the  loveliest  girl  in  this  world,  and  I  think  of  you 
every  minute.  Just  the  same,  if  you  don't  tend  to  that 
daguerreotype  pretty  soon,  I'll  find  me  some  other  girl. 
Only  I'll  never  find  a  girl  in  all  the  world  that  can  hold 
a  candle  to  you " 

"When  I  think,  how  poor  Father  spent  all  those  60  dol- 
lars sending  me  off  to  college!  I'm  thankful  I've  got  17 
dollars  left  of  it,   anyway. 

"I  ought  to  tell  Father  about  Richard  and  me,  but  I  am 
afraid  he  will  think  I  am  light-headed.  To  have  two  suitors 
at  once.  But  how  could  anybody  look  at  poor  Lemuel,  when 
Richard  is  around!  Or  even  if  he  isn't. 

"I  wish  I  had  told  him  to  take  along  an  extra  flannel 
shirt  and  some  ague  pills.  Then  if  he  has  to  drive  all  night, 
he  won't  be  near  so  apt  to  catch  cold." 

Life,  to  Jo  Vanny,  had  grown  insupportable  without  his 
precious  family.  Day  by  day  he  grieved  for  the  monkeys, 
night  after  night  he  mourned  for  Cartouche.  Would  the 
flatboat  man  feed  the  monkeys  enough  to  hold  their  poor 
little  skeletons  together  through  the  long  winter?  Would 
he  procure  for  Cartouche,  that  aged  and  infirm  treasure, 
abundance  of  bread  and  milk,  for  his  toothless  jaws?  Or 
would  he  be  fed  on  miserly  bread  and  water,  alone? 


THE    FATHER  241 

His  mind  grew  racked  with  worry,  his  lonely  little  spirit 
chafed  and  fretted.  Aunty  dosed  him  with  camomile  tea- 
Mercy  fussed  up  tempting  messes  for  him.  In  vain.  He 
drooped,  he  grew  a  shadow,  even,  of  his  piteous  little  self. 

While  Mercy  was  away,  Mr.  Lincoln  had  stopped  in 
for  supper  even  more  frequently  than  before.  Now,  since 
the  high  water  came,  the  roads  were  so  atrocious  that  he 
took  to  spending  the  nights,  as  well. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  keep  on  riding  circuit,  unless 
you  take  me  in,"  he  urged  Father.  "If  I  want  to  keep  on 
practicing  law,  I've  got  to  get  me  a  web-footed  horse.  Or 
else  swim.  The  chance  to  get  fed  up  and  dried  out,  mid- 
way my  circuit,  is  worth  good  tavern  money.  And  more." 

Mr.  Stafford  shrugged. 

"Let  you  pay?  I'd  like  to  see  you  try  it.  When  we're 
deep  in  debt  to  you  now,  for  all  those  victuals  you've 
brought  in!" 

"Oh,  all  right,  all  right.  Next  time  I  go  to  St.  Louis, 
I'll  order  me  a  diver's  suit." 

Mr.  Stafford  went  to  Mercy.  She  listened,  while  rolling 
out  cooky  dough  with  swift,  deft  hands. 

"Please  let  him  pay,  Father.  I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  as 
soon  as  the  cobbler  comes  by,  I've  got  to  have  shoes  made 
for  all  three  little  boys.  And  they  must  have  new  panta- 
loons apiece.  They're  simply  destitute.  And  Thomas's  new 
roundabout  is  split  down  the  back.  He  did  that  digging  for 
treasure,  in  the  Indian  mound." 

"Confound  those  mounds!  The  children  have  wasted 
months  clawing  through  them.  But  where  will  he  sleep?" 

"He  can  share  the  big  loft  with  the  boys.  They'll  love 
to  have  him." 

"That  makes  us  pretty  crowded.  'Specially  since  I've 
brought  the  press  home,  till  the  office  is  repaired." 


242  THE    FATHER 

"Well,  don't  let's  mind.  Besides,  I  feel  lots  safer  to 
have  you  right  in  reach.  When  I  think  of  that  mob,  and 
their  tar-bucket " 

Her  Father  chuckled.  It  was  quite  as  well  that  she  had 
not  seen  the  latest  warning  sent  to  him:  a  pleasing  re- 
minder. 

"Plenty  more  Turpentine  and  matches  where  those 
came  from.  We  want  no  Agitators  here.  Take  your  chance 
wile  you  got  one." 

Mr.  Lincoln  came.  As  Mercy  suspected,  he  came  in 
order  that  his  tiny  "tavern  money"  should  help  them 
through  these  shoal  waters.  But  she  did  not  suspect  his 
deeper  motive:  his  determination  that,  by  his  intimacy 
with  the  household,  he  would  influence  public  opinion  in 
Father's  favor.  He  knew,  too  well,  how  strong  had  been 
the  shift  of  local  thought,  from  moderate  friendliness  to 
actual  opposition.  Nobody  loves  a  man  who  has  incurred 
the  dislike  of  an  obscure  yet  powerful  faction,  which  may 
vent  its  disapproval  on  the  victim's  acquaintance. 

Very  soon,  his  shrewd  diplomacy  bore  fruit  in  increasing 
neighborliness.  There  came  even  a  dozen  or  so  new  sub- 
scribers to  the  Clarion.  Unhappily,  these  were  paid  for  in 
somewhat  dubious  coin. 

"My  last  subscriber  brought  in  a  load  of  sprouted  pota- 
toes, and  another  man  offered  me  a  goat.  Said  it  had  been 
raised  a  pet,  but  it  was  getting  so  cantankerous,  he  didn't 
want  it  around  the  children  any  longer.  I  suppose  he 
thought  my  own  children  were  made  of  more  enduring 
stuff  than  are  his  own." 

"Oh,  Father!  Let  me  have  it!  I'll  teach  it  to  draw  a 
little  wagon." 

"Yes,  but  you  won't  teach  it  to  refrain  from  butting 
Aunty  and  Mercy.  That  will  do,  Thomas.  No  use  pucker- 


THE    FATHER  243 

ing  up.  I  suppose  that  man  remembered  we  once  quartered 
a  circus  here." 

"Even  if  he  didn't,"  Mr.  Lincoln's  face  was  lamblike. 
"Even  if  he  didn't,  he  may  feel  that  an  Abolitionist  head- 
quarters is  pretty  much  the  same  thing." 

Father  grinned  reluctantly.  Try  as  you  might,  you  could 
never  stand  out  against  Mr.  Lincoln. 

Thanks  to  his  championship,  the  social  leaders,  too,  grew 
more  friendly.  Aunty  was  keenly  gratified  by  her  frequent 
invitations.  Quiltings,  sewing  bees,  sings,  church  suppers, 
house-raising  dinners,  poured  in  upon  her. 

"If  I  wasn't  so  trembly  nowadays,  I'd  admire  to  go  to 
every  one  of  'em.  And  of  all  things,  I  wish  I  could  go  to 
that  church  carpet-supper.  I  always  did  feel  the  Methodists 
was  misguided,  but  they're  cream  kind,  for  all  that.  Don't 
you  want  to  go  and  take  the  boys?  I've  promised  the  com- 
mittee a  whole  quarter.  It's  a  shame  if  we  can't  get  three 
meals  out  of  that,  four  maybe." 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  to."  Mercy  was  all  dimples.  A 
church  carpet-supper,  indeed,  when  she  had  a  fat  letter  from 
Richard  up  her  sleeve,  and  not  a  free  minute,  so  far,  to 
read  it!  "I'll  send  the  little  boys." 

Donny  had  gone  to  town  with  Father,  but  Thomas  and 
Seth,  after  being  scrubbed,  polished  and  rigidly  inspected, 
were  permitted  to  go.  Afterwards  Mercy  regretted  that  she 
had  not  left  Richard  up  her  sleeve,  and  accompanied  them. 
For  it  was  not  three  hours  till  Thomas  appeared  impor- 
tantly, dragging  an  all  but  comatose  Seth. 

"Well,  it  was  this  way.  I  ate  lots  of  breakfast  this 
morning,  so  I  wasn't  so  very  hungry.  But  Seth,  he  was 
plumb  starved.  And  when  we  got  there,  they  had  wild  tur- 
key, and  roast  ham,  with  cloves  in,  and  partridges  with 
bacon  on  'em.  And  Mis'  Isaiah  Brooker,  she  says  to  holp 
ourselves,  plenty.  And  Seth,  he  holp  himself " 


244  THE    FATHER 

"Helped,  not  holp,  Thomas." 

"Yes,  Ma'am.  So  Seth,  he  helped  himself  plenty.  And  I 
took  some  turkey,  but  I  wasn't  very  hungry.  But  Seth,  he 
et  and  he  et " 

"Ate,  Thomas." 

"Yes,  Ma'am.  Ate.  Well,  he  ate.  Then  comes  Mis' 
Isaiah,  and  she  says,  'Land  o'  Goshen,  look  at  that  poor 
child's  plate!  Scraped  clean!'  So  she  fetches  him  some  more 
turkey.  And  a  great  sasserful  of  succotash,  and  five  or  six 
sweet  pickles.  And  a  great  slice  of  venison.  I  forgot  they 
had  venison.  And  Seth  didn't  want  to  be  impolite.  So  he  et 
that.  And  I  wasn't  hungry.  Then  after  a  while  comes 
Missis  Isaiah's  grown-up  daughter,  with  a  big  crock  of 
smearcase,  and  another  of  cabbage,  and  some  spiced  pears." 

"So  Seth  piled  Ossa  upon  Pelion."  Father  spoke  some- 
what grimly.  Thomas  looked  doubtful. 

"I  didn't  see  any  of  that." 

"Never  mind.  It  would  be  easier  to  catalogue  Homer's 
ships.  Cut  it  short,  son." 

"Well,  somebody  had  sent  Mis'  Rogers  a  sack  of  raisins. 
So  she  had  made  raisin  pie.  And  Seth  ate  that.  Then  some 
of  the  other  boys  told  Seth  he  dasn't  smoke  some  of  their 
sweet  fern.  And  Seth  didn't  want  to  be  rude,  so  he  did. 
Then  we  had  some  watermelon  preserve.  And  Seth,  he 
didn't  want  to  slight  anybody." 

"Don't  worry,  Thomas.  Nobody  could  have  felt 
slighted." 

"Anyhow,  after  a  while,  I  got  scared.  And  I  said,  'If 
you  don't  quit,  you'll  have  the  bellyache 

"Thomas!" 

"Yes,  Ma'am.  And  he's  got  it." 

"Hard  luck,  Seth,"  Mr.  Lincoln  consoled  him,  later. 
"We've  all  tried  to  please  everybody  in  our  day.  We've 


THE    FATHER  245 

been  lucky  if  we  got  off  with  nothing  worse  than  a  stom- 
achache. Now  hurry  and  get  well.  That  flatboat  fellow  who 
took  Jo  Vanny's  menagerie  is  back  in  Beardstown.  He  is 
going  to  show  his  animals  in  every  township  in  Illinois,  he 
says.  Now  I've  got  four  dimes,  and  they'll  burn  four  holes 
in  my  pocket  if  I  don't  go  to  see  those  animals,  and  take 
three  friends  with  me,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

Jo  Vanny  was  sitting  at  the  hearth,  shelling  corn.  He 
looked  up,  he  stared  wildly.  Without  waiting  for  his  sup- 
per, he  fled  to  the  barn,  hitched  the  spotted  ponies  to  his 
red-and-gold  wagon,  and  was  on  his  way. 

The  flatboat  man  had  gone  to  the  postoffice.  But  the  lady 
of  the  boat  received  Jo  Vanny,  totally  without  enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  I  never  seen  you  before,  but  I  know  who  you 
are.  Now  don't  let  me  catch  you,  bringing  any  more 
heathen  beasts  around,  and  tryin'  to  palm  'em  off  on  us 
for  the  winter." 

Jo  Vanny  tried  to  explain,  but  his  English  deserted  him. 
Only  by  violent  gestures  did  he  make  his  wishes  clear. 

"You  mean,  you  want  to  take  yem  back?  Land's  sakes, 
take  'em,  and  good  riddance.  Here,  what  you  up  to?  My 
grief,  you  lettin'  that  lion  loose?" 

Jo  Vanny  had  flung  open  Cartouche's  door.  He  was 
weeping  on  Cartouche's  giant  shoulder.  He  showered  the 
monkeys  with  embraces.  These  were  his  people,  these  were 
his  treasures.  Jo  Vanny  was  as  one  who,  long  exiled,  treads 
again  the  soil  of  home. 

"Say,  calm  down.  No  use  having  conniptions  all  over  the 
place." 

The  flatboat  lady  and  a  couple  of  ferrymen,  charmed 
with  their  novel  task,  helped  hoist  the  cages  into  the  wagon. 
Mindful  of  Father's  irrational  objections,  Jo  Vanny  drove 
his  treasures  to  an  abandoned  cabin,  well  past  the  marsh. 

When  Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  rode  home,  Jo  Vanny 


246  THE    FATHER 

sat  on  the  back  steps,  exuding  an  aroma  that  set  both  horses 
dancing.  Jo  Vanny  poured  out  his  hopes.  If  Father  would 
give  him  use  of  his  shack,  he  would  make  it  a  zoo,  charge 
five  cents  admission,  earn  boundless  sums,  at  once.  His  sole 
expenses  would  be  food,  and  a  fiddle.  The  fiddle,  his  elo- 
quent hands  set  forth,  was  necessary  to  lure  by  its  music 
the  wandering  passer-by. 

Father  refused  flatly.  Jo  Vanny  could  take  his  animals 
to  whatever  spot  on  the  earth's  surface  he  chose.  But  no 
circus  in  the  Stafford  marsh.  That  was  that. 

Jo  Vanny  made  no  protest.  He  was  used  to  refusals.  He 
gathered  himself  up,  twisted  leg,  bent  little  back  and  all. 
He  hobbled  weakly  away,  down  the  miry  road. 

Father  looked  after  him. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  the  little  boys !    But  no  keeping 

them  away  from  that  shack.  They'll  spend  the  rest  of 
their  natural  lives  carrying  mush  and  milk  to  the  lion, 
they'll  fall  down  and  worship  the  monkeys  till  doomsday." 

Mr.  Lincoln  maintained  a  judicial  silence. 

"Besides,  it'll  be  an  odious  nuisance,  having  him  within 
half  a  mile  of  the  house.  No-no,  the  horses  won't  notice 
the  odor,  that  far.  But  he'll  be  perpetually  trudging  over, 
for  food  and  help  and  advice  and  kindling-wood,  and 
Heaven  knows  what.  Better  settle  the  thing,  once  and  for 
all." 

Mr.  Lincoln  stooped  from  his  horse,  pulled  a  grass 
blade,  nibbled  it  reflectively. 

"Though  I've  always  said,  I'd  never  turn  away  any- 
body  Hi,  Jo  Vanny!  That's  poison  ivy  you're  pulling! 

Give  that  to  the  monkeys,  and  you'll  have  a  community 
funeral  on  your  hands.  Isn't  that  just  what  you  could  ex- 
pect? The  poor  oaf,  he  doesn't  know  a  deadly  poison  when 
he  sees  it!" 

"When  I  was  down  in  St.  Louis,  last  month,"  thus  Mr. 


THE    FATHER  247 

Lincoln,  innocent  as  the  Serpent  in  the  Garden,  "I  saw 
what  looked  like  a  mighty  good  violin,  stuck  in  a  pawnshop 
window.  I  asked  the  man  what  he  wanted  for  it.  He  tried 
to  stick  out  for  seven  dollars  and  a  half.  I'll  bet  he'd  be 
glad  to  hand  it  over  for  five,  cash." 

Jo  Vanny  plodded  on. 

"Hang  it,  the  poor  fool  didn't  even  stop  for  his  sup- 
per! And  of  course  he  hasn't  so  much  as  a  spoonful  of 
meal  in  his  shack.  No  fire  to  cook  it  with.  No  stove,  no 
bed,  no  anything " 

Far  ahead,  the  little  stumbling  figure  struggled  on.  On 
through  the  thickening  dusk. 

Father  hesitated  one  minute  more.  Then  he  gave  Button 
a  slap.  Top  speed,  he  galloped  down  the  road. 

Mr.  Lincoln  looked  after  him.  Over  his  gaunt  face  came 
a  wide,  contented  grin. 

"Next  time  I  get  to  St.  Louis,  I  reckon  I  may's  well  buy 
that  violin." 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

YOU'RE  figuring  on  staying  in  Illinois  this  summer?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"You've  found  a  good  job,  then?" 

"Y-yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Lincoln  swung  back  comfortably  in  the  big  hickory 
rocker.  Upon  him  lay  a  veritable  halo  of  beneficence.  Ten 
minutes  ago  Richard  Harrison  had  arrived,  a  dressy  young 
princeling,  to  call  on  Mercy.  When  the  pop-eyed  Seth  had 
ushered  him  in  ("Here's  Mercy's  company — again!")  Mr. 
Stafford  had  glanced  up  from  his  newspaper  and  given  the 
boy  a  nod  of  greeting  so  curt  that  it  verged  on  rebuff,  then 
had  risen,  glowering  and  pale,  and  stalked  from  the  room 
without  one  word.  In  the  kindness  of  his  heart  Mr.  Lincoln 
had  flung  himself  into  the  breach.  You  couldn't  blame 
Stafford  for  being  jealous  of  this  young  Majesty.  Even  his 
own  seasoned  old  heart  owned  a  twinge  at  the  swift  radi- 
ance on  the  girl's  flower-like  face.  But  it  was  hard  for  the 
boy  to  find  himself  so  unwelcome.  He  would  stay  and  visit 
with  the  two  for  awhile.  Thus  he  would  put  young 
Majesty  at  ease. 

He  launched  cheerfully  into  a  topic  which  vastly  inter- 
ested him  nowadays:  the  chances  of  Federal  improvement 
of  the  Sangamon  River.  Statistics  flowed  from  his  tongue. 
Plans,  concessions,  appropriations,  details  without  number, 
were  spread  before  the  two.  He  was  so  intent  on  his  cher- 
ished topic  that  he  took  no  heed  whether  or  not  his  hearers 
were  interested. 

Richard  never  took  his  eyes  from  Mercy,  save  to  look 
bleakly  upon  the  clock.  Mercy  never  once  took  her  eyes 


THE    FATHER  249 

from  Richard  for  any  purpose  whatever.  All  that  greeting 
radiance  was  dimmed  in  gray  despair. 

"You'll  see  this  sparse  untraveled  country  blossom  as  the 
rose  before  you  two  get  your  growth." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln." 

"And  you  will  live  to  enjoy,  not  only  prosperity,  but 
modest  wealth,  if  this  plan  is  carried  through." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln." 

"Well.  Reckon  I'll  be  going.  Mercy,  did  your  Father 
say  he  would  be  riding  back  to  town  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  must  be  at  the  office  by  two." 

"By  two?  On  my  word,  it's  close  on  two,  now.  You 
will  excuse  me?" 

They  would,  they  certainly  would,  so  they  assured  him, 
with  a  willingness  all  but  pitiful.  Mr.  Lincoln  beamed  on 
them,  and  departed  happily  certain  of  a  kindly  service 
graciously  done. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other,  dazed  at  this  unexpected 
reprieve.  Silently,  as  with  unspoken  accord,  they  fled  the 
house. 

"We  can  sit  on  the  far  side  of  Mount  Everest,"  quavered 
Mercy.  Mount  Everest  was  Seth's  name  for  the  tallest  of 
the  little  Indian  mounds. 

"Yes,  let's.  Nobody  will  bother  us  there.  Not  unless  the 
Captain  comes  along.  Or  Twonnet,  or  your  Aunt  Celestia, 
or  a  few  of  the  little  boys.  I'd  really  like  half  an  hour  to 
myself  if  you  can  spare  it  from  your  folks.  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  This  looks  like  my  only  chance  before  I 
go  away." 

Dread  knocked  at  Mercy's  heart. 

"Go  away?" 

"The  Underground  folks  are  sending  me  to  Pitts  Land- 
ing, near  St.  Louis.  From  there  I'm  to  drive  the  route  to 
Davenport,  then  hand  over  my  passengers  to  a  man  who 


250  THE    FATHER 

will  take  them  on  to  Chicago.  I  may  not  get  back  this  way 
before  September." 

Mercy  did  not  answer.  She  could  not.  She  sat  down  on 
the  warm,  dry  grass  atop  Mount  Everest.  Richard  did  not 
say  anything  more.  He  stared  out  over  the  prairie.  On  this 
tiny  vantage  point,  the  one  lift  in  that  endless  golden- 
green,  you  stood  as  on  a  ship  at  sea.  Before  you,  behind  you, 
stretched  that  vast  rolling,  burning  floor.  Mile  on  mile, 
world  upon  shining  world.  Liquid  gold,  the  gold  of  the 
waist-high  shoulder-high  prairie  grass,  waves  on  waves 
baked  as  by  furnace  heat,  under  that  molten  sunshine. 
Liquid  gold,  dappled  with  cloud-shadows  that  raced  over 
it  like  tall  ships  flying  before  the  high  sweet  midsummer 
gale.  And  always  that  rising,  falling  tide  of  wind,  that 
eternal  lullaby,  that  hush,  hush,  hush  of  the  sleeping  prairie 
sea. 

"Don't  keep  looking  back  at  the  house,  Mercy.  Yes,  I 
know  the  little  boys  will  be  coming  home  half-starved.  But 
I'm  starved  myself.  For — you." 

"Oh,  well "  Mercy  would  not  let  herself  smile,  she 

would  not  look  his  way.  Starved,  was  he?  Because  he  had 
seen  her  only  once  since  Monday?  Starved  for  her?  Oh,  if 
she  could  just  look  up  at  him,  smile  at  him,  tell  him!  Tell 
him  of  her  own  hunger  for  him,  of  the  love  that  ached 
in  her  throat,  that  quivered  on  her  mouth!  But  before  her 
eyes,  like  a  drawn  sword,  hung  the  thought  of  Lemuel:  the 
blighting  memory  of  that  lost  letter.  .  .  . 

Richard  leaned  closer.  At  last,  shy,  bold,  he  slipped  his 
arm  around  her.  His  rough  sleeve  was  hot  from  the  sun. 
Its  prickle  burnt  deliciously  on  her  cheek.  Only  this  one 
day  together.  Then  he  would  be  gone  the  whole  cruel  sum- 
mer. And  she  would  have  to  live  and  bear  that  separation. 
Well,  she  couldn't  live  and  bear  it,  that  was  all.  Three 


THE    FATHER  251 

whole  months,  with  not  a  sight  of  him?  She  could  not. 
She'd  drown. 

"Where's  that  daguerreotype  you  promised  me?" 

"Promised  you?" 

Richard  laughed  out.  Oh,  how  could  he  laugh,  how  could 
he? 

"Trying  to  slip  out?  No  use.  Because  I'm  going  to  have 
that  picture  of  you,  whether  or  no.  It  isn't  safe  to  let  me 
start  away  without  one,  see?  I  might  happen  across  some 
other  girl,  and  forget  all  about  you  by  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Only " 

Mercy  held  her  breath. 

"Only — no  chance  that  I'd  ever  find  a  girl  to  hold  a 
candle  to  you.  Not  anywhere." 

Silence. 

"Listen.  After  all  that, — don't  I  deserve  that  daguer- 
reotype ? " 

But  Mercy's  stern  little  chin  was  quivering. 

"I — I  haven't  a  picture  of  myself.  If  I  had — why — 
maybe But  I  can  give  you  a  keepsake,  if  you  1-like." 

She  tugged  at  the  blue  ribbon  round  her  neck.  The 
carnelian  ring  hung  there  no  longer.  But  the  ribbon  held 
the  family  locket. 

"If  you'd  like  it,  I — I'd  be  very  pleased  to  give  you  this. 
I'm  sorry  it  isn't  real  gold.  Thomas  cut  his  teeth  on  it,  and 
he  sucked  off  the  gold,  you  see.  There  wasn't  much  to  begin 
with.  But  I've  always  liked  it  because  Thomas  enjoyed  it 
so  much.  If  you  care  to  have  it " 

"Care  for  it — care  for  it!"  All  the  teasing  fun  went 
out  of  Richard's  face.  Mercy  pulled  the  locket  from  her 
neck,  laid  it  in  his  hand.  She  looked  up.  But  her  eyes  fell 
before  the  look  in  his  own  eyes.  The  look  Father  gave  her, 
so  many  times.  The  look  Adoniram  gave  her,  when  she  had 


25*  THE    FATHER 

dragged   him  through   a  lonesome  spell.   And  something 
more.  Something  far  more. 

"It  has  a  place  for  a  lock  of  hair,  but  I  guess  Thomas 
chewed  it  till  he  broke  the  catch." 

"What  do  I  want  with  a  lock  of  your  hair?  You  blessed 
little  fool!  When  I — I'm  going  to  have  all  of  you!" 

He  was  crouched  on  his  knees  now,  his  black  head  against 
her  little  shoulder,  his  big  body  trembling.  Mercy  pushed 
him  back.  Although  her  heart  was  breaking  in  her  breast. 

"Richard,  I  can't.  I Oh,  I've  got  to  tell  you!" 

"Tell  me  what?"  All  his  white  adoration  was  gone  in  a 
breath.  "Who  is  it?  Who  is  this  other  man  you're  holding 
to?  The  one  who  gave  you  that  ring — I  knew  it!  You're 
still  holding  fast  to  him,  you  still  want  him.  More  than 
you  want  me!" 

"Oh,  Richard!  Don't  make  it  so  hard.  I — I  had  a  letter 

from  him.  And  I've  lost  it.  And Oh,  I  don't  want  to 

make  it  too  cruel  hard  for  him." 

"Have  you  any  idea,  how  hard  you're  making  it  for 
me?"  Then,  suddenly  changing  his  mood: 

"Mercy,  I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you  that  I  haven't  one 
solitary  dollar  to  my  name."  He  laughed  out,  as  at  some 
delightful  joke.  "But  by  fall  I'm  hoping  my  guardian  will 
come  around  and  be  generous.  He's  had  these  tempers  be- 
fore, and  it  takes  him  about  a  year  to  sweeten  up  each 
time.  Maybe,  by  fall,  he'll  let  me  have  my  interest  money 
again.  It  amounts  to  nearly  two  hundred,  now.  And  if  I  can 
get  work  this  winter,  any  work  at  all,  I  ought  to  be  able  to 
save  up  fifty  dollars  or  more.  Then,  by  spring,  I — I've  got 
to  have  you.  No,  don't  start  telling  me  that  they  can't  spare 
you  at  home.  Of  course  they  can't  spare  you.  They  never 
can.  But  no  more  can  I.  I've  got  to  have  you.  I  can't  go  on 
living,  without  you.  And  as  for  that  fellow  back  east " 

Mercy  laid  a  soft  little  silencing  hand  on  his  mouth.  It 


THE    FATHER  253 

completely  failed  of  its  purpose.  Richard  snatched  it  and 
put  a  band  of  kisses  round  the  warm  little  wrist  and  down 
the  satin  palm. 

"Oh,  but  Richard "  Locked  doors  cannot  hold  back 

a  New  England  conscience  after  all. 

"Of  course  your  father  will  never  give  you  up.  You 
need  not  tell  me  that.  But  he  doesn't  understand  how  I'll 
take  care  of  you.  I'll  never  let  anything  hurt  you,  my 
sweet.  I'll  never  forget  you.  Not  for  one  single  hour " 

After  all,  what  chance  has  a  New  England  conscience 
against  Majesty  and  nineteen? 

The  long  gold  day  burned  on.  Wrapped  in  that  im- 
mortal light,  they  sat  together,  spoke  their  immortal  lines, 
grave  young  actors  rapt  in  their  undying  roles.  Roles  taught 
them  before  the  breath  was  on  their  lips  or  the  pulse-beat 
in  their  hearts. 

Finally  Richard  stood  up. 

"I've  got  to  go,  Mercy.  I'm  riding  to  Springfield  to- 
night, then  taking  the  early  stage  to  St.  Louis.  I'll  come 
back,  the  very  first  chance  I  get,  if  I  can  only  stay  an  hour. 
And  you'll  write  to  me?  You'll  remember " 

"I'll  remember."  Mercy  walked  silently  beside  him.  A 
curious  shyness  seized  on  both. 

"Then, — Even  though  you  won't  promise,  you  do 
care " 

Suddenly  Mercy  pulled  her  hand  away. 

"Richard,  look  yonder.  See  that  man  on  horseback  riding 
south  across  the  prairie.  Is  that  one  of  the  Clary  gang,  do 
you  suppose?  What  can  he  be  doing,  on  Father's  land? 
Richard,  what  is  he  up  to?" 

Richard  stared  against  the  dazzle  of  prairie  and  sky. 

"What  can  he  be  doing?  He's  stooping  right  out  of  the 
saddle " 


254  THE    FATHER 

"I  know  that.  I  know  what  he's  doing  too.  Blow  your 
horn  for  Twonnet,  Mercy.  Quick.  Get  all  the  blankets  in 
the  house  and  wet  them  at  the  well.  Find  Adoniram  and 
put  him  on  my  horse  and  send  him  to  town  for  your 
father  and  Mr.  Lincoln.  Tell  him  to  bring  everybody 
else  who'll  come  and  help." 

"Richard,  what  is  it?" 

Over  the  lake  of  the  prairie  whiffed  up  a  faint  purplish 
cloud. 

"Making  another  try  to  burn  your  father  out,  that's  all. 
He's  set  the  grass  afire.  The  wind  is  blowing  straight  this 
way." 

One  hour,  two  hours,  three.  It  seemed  to  Mercy  that  she 
had  toiled  for  years,  pumping  water  from  the  well,  throw- 
ing in  the  singed  sodden  blankets,  rushing  back  and  forth 
to  Father,  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  to  Richard,  where  they  plowed 
and  slashed  at  the  tall  grass  like  madmen,  to  cut  their  fire- 
break before  these  creeping  flames  should  crowd  their  way 
past.  She  splashed  water  over  the  men  continually  so  that 
the  sparks  which  blew  everywhere  should  not  char  their 
clothing  and  burn  their  flesh.  Twonnet,  her  dark  face 
crimson,  worked  nobly,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  men. 
The  old  Captain,  who  had  struggled  from  his  bed  to  help, 
crept  along  behind  and  beat  feebly  at  treacherous  little 
smolders.  Aunty  and  the  little  boys  toiled  with  all  their 
might.  Nobody  spoke.  Every  breath  was  precious. 

Flame  and  heat  and  cruel  hurrying  wind.  Sparks  that 
lighted  on  your  hair,  your  drenched  pink  dimity,  your  sod- 
den slippers.  Sparks  blowing  past  your  face,  a  hideous  fiery 
rain.  Father  and  Richard  and  Mr.  Lincoln  had  thrashed  out 
blaze  after  blaze,  pounded  down  each  rising  flame  as  it 
flared  alive.  If  they  could  stop  that  new  fire  behind  the 


THE    FATHER  255 

barn.  ...  If  they  could  trample  back  those  nests  of  gusty 
fire  that  leaped  up  almost  at  the  cabin  door.  .  .  . 

After  a  while,  she  knew  dimly  that  she  was  back  in  the 
cabin,  sitting  on  the  big  lounge.  Thomas,  hoarse  and 
screaming  with  excitement,  flounced  in  her  lap.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln stood  at  the  water-pail  gulping  down  gourdful  after 
gourdful.  It  seemed  as  if  he  would  never  get  enough,  as 
if  he  were  parched  inside,  just  as  he  was  parched  and  seared 
and  dried  to  a  crackle  outside,  every  brave  inch  of  him. 
He  looked  rather  funny,  too,  she  reflected  dizzily,  for  he 
was  still  wearing  his  jim-swinger  Court  Day  coat;  he'd 
never  thought  to  take  it  off.  The  strips  of  ruined  cloth  were 
actually  falling  from  him  in  tatters.  His  trousers  were  all 
burnt,  too.  His  shoes  were  done  for.  Everybody's  shoes  were 
ruined,  as  well  as  everybody's  clothes.  Her  pink  dress  was 
burnt  in  spots,  and  torn  to  rags  on  her.  As  for  Richard,  he 
was  worse  than  rags.  As  Aunty  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, the  jeans  shirt  came  off  him,  in  one  baked-to-powder 
strip.  Richard  did  not  seem  to  notice  that.  He  was  sitting 
very  dignifledly  on  a  kitchen  chair,  and  he  kept  saying  over 
and  over:  "S-nothing.  Guess  I'll  go  home.  Soon's  I  can 
see " 

"Much  you'll  go  home.  You'll  stay  right  here.  Mercy 
Stafford,  wake  up,  can't  you?  Bring  me  that  linseed  oil 
your  pa  bought  for  the  new  paint,  and  fetch  my  camphor 
bottle.  Don't  you  see  this  boy  can  hardly  sit  up?" 

Then  Mercy  woke  up.  She  could  not  say  much,  but  she 
could  work,  blindly,  stupidly.  Everybody  had  burns  and 
scorches,  but  Richard's  hurts  were  by  far  the  worst,  and 
he  was  near  collapse.  He  roused  soon,  and  tried  to  make 
light  of  his  injuries,  but  the  rest  worked  on,  with  every 
remedy  at  hand. 

"Carry  him  into  my  room,"  commanded  Aunty.  "Take 


256  THE    FATHER 

his  feet,  John.  You,  Mr.  Lincoln,  carry  his  head — I  said 
carry  it,  not  ram  it  against  the  door  frame!  There.  That's 
better.  Mercy,  make  some  coffee  and  we'll  give  him  some 
soon's  he  can  swallow.  John,  you  look  beat  out.  Better  drink 
some,  right  away.  And  Mr.  Lincoln,  too.  Mercy  Rose,  do 
you  know  a  coffee-pot  when  you  see  one  or  shall  I  come 
and  point  it  out  to  you?  Then  you  menfolks  lie  down  and 
get  a  wink  of  sleep " 

"Sleep!"  Mr.  Lincoln  soused  linseed  oil  on  his  tortured 
hands.  "We  men  will  patrol  that  prairie  for  the  night.  If 
that  flame  jumps  up  again,  no  saving  this  house,  nor  any- 
thing else." 

Before  Aunty  had  finished  her  bandaging  Richard  lay 
in  a  leaden  sleep.  Mercy,  still  dazed  and  clumsy,  made 
the  coffee  for  Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln.  The  two  swallowed 
it  hurriedly  and  then  stumbled  outdoors  again.  She  poured 
left-over  mush  and  milk  down  the  little  boys  and  ordered 
them  to  bed.  They  went  without  protest,  so  tired  they  could 
hardly  wait  to  pull  off  scorched  jackets  and  crackling,  split- 
ting shoes. 

Presently  she  crept  up  the  ladder-steps  after  them.  She 
sat  down  at  her  window  and  looked  out  dully.  Only  an 
hour  ago,  and  they  were  all  wading  in  smoke  and  flame. 
But  now  the  wind  had  gone  down  with  the  sun,  the  air 
grew  swiftly  cooler.  Only  a  gleam  of  sunset  still  lighted 
the  clouded  west.  Like  scraps  of  tinsel,  the  first  stars  floated 
in  a  smoky  blue  bowl  of  sky. 

"I'd  like  to  lie  down  just  one  minute,"  she  thought.  But 
she  was  too  tired  to  stir.  Too  tired  to  sleep.  She  knelt  down 
by  Thomas's  cot.  Thomas  was  too  deep  in  sleep  to  cuddle 
up  to  her  for  his  prayers,  even.   .  .  . 

Forty  yards  away,  Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  stood  talking. 
Their  voices  were  low,  but  she  heard  every  word, 

"Oh,  don't  take  it  so  hard,  Mr.  Lincoln.  They're  trying 


THE    FATHER  257 

to  drive  me  out  to  be  sure.  But  I'm  getting  used  to  that. 
What  does  rasp  on  me  is  the  fact  that  I'm  making  no  head- 
way. Here  I've  planned  and  hoped  that  I  could  convince  a 
few  thinking  men.  And  so  far,  I  have  done  more  harm 
than  good,  seems  to  me.  Instead  of  convincing,  I've  re- 
pelled. I  haven't  won  an  inch  of  ground.  Not  even  with 
you." 

"Well,  I'd  be  mighty  small  game  if  you  had  brought  me 
down.  A  third-rate  backwoods  lawyer  like  me.  But  you've 
got  to  have  patience,  Stafford.  One  of  these  days  this  nation 
will  listen  to  you  with  an  open  mind.  But  you've  got  to 
give  these  changes  time.  A  whole  lot  of  time." 

"If  you  believe,  Mr.  Lincoln,  that  this  nation  can  afford 
to  spend  much  time  in  vain  argument!"  Father's  voice  stung 
with  cold  anger. 

"They're  both  so  worked  up  over  their  old  argument 
they'd  never  notice  it  if  the  whole  prairie  burst  into  fire 
around  them,"  Mercy  thought.  "And  I'll  wager  neither 
one  of  them  has  given  Richard  another  thought.  Not  even 
gone  in  to  give  him  a  drink  of  water." 

Her  head  sank.  Not  knowing,  she  must  have  slept.  For 
when  she  roused  herself  all  was  black  darkness. 

She  crept  down  the  ladder.  Sprawled  on  the  keeping- 
room  floor,  not  even  a  pillow  under  his  head,  lay  Mr. 
Lincoln,  sleeping  like  a  log.  Sprawled  on  the  kitchen  floor 
lay  Father.  Not  Gabriel  and  his  trump  could  ever  have 
roused  those  two. 

She  slid  into  Aunty's  room.  Aunty  slept  too,  balanced 
precariously  upright  in  the  pomegranate  rocker.  Had  she 
searched  for  days  she  could  not  have  found  a  more  wretch- 
edly uneasy  seat. 

And  prone  on  the  pineapple  bed,  the  four  mutilated  little 
hands  stretched  up  appealingly  around  him,  lay  Richard. 
He  lay  thrown  down  like  a  drowned  creature,  every  muscle 


258  THE    FATHER 

lax.  His  poor  funny  hands  were  the  size  of  sofa  cushions. 
Around  his  black  head,  Aunty  had  tied  her  blue  check  apron, 
turban  fashion,  to  hold  the  bandages  in  place  on  his  singed 
scalp.  And  from  him  there  emanated  a  mingled  and  over- 
powering fragrance.  Camphor,  linseed  oil,  mutton-tallow, 
liniment,  camomile,  rosemary,  sage, — every  aroma  ever 
known  to  Araby  the  Blest  and  elsewhere.  All:  all  save 
bergamot. 

Not  even  a  whiff  of  bergamot. 

Candle  in  hand,  Mercy  leaned  over  him.  He  was  so  lost 
in  sleep  it  was  as  if  he  lay  carved  in  effigy,  carved  in  one 
with  the  straight  white  folds  of  linen,  the  great  sculptured 
bed.  So  lost,  so  far  away.  His  beautiful  marred  face  was  as 
moveless  as  though  it  lay  beneath  deep  water. 

She  leaned  closer.  Her  soft  lips  touched  his  forehead, 
brushed  his  hair,  more  lightly  than  the  breeze.  So  Psyche 
bent  over  her  sleeping  Eros.  So  bent  the  girl  queen  of  the 
far  Latmian  night  above  Endymion. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIVE 

THOMAS,  come  here.  Want  to  do  something  grand 
with  me?" 

"What?"  Thomas  hung  back.  Jo  Vanny  had  said  some- 
thing about  cutting  the  lion's  toe-nails  that  week  in  the 
dark  of  the  moon,  and  Thomas  was  sticking  to  Jo  Vanny's 
shack  like  glue.  Not  for  a  king's  ransom  would  he  have 
missed  that  auspicious  rite. 

"Listen.  It's  a  secret.  We're  going  across  the  bluffs 
to  that  daguerrier-wagon — you  remember?  You  and  I, 
'purpose  to  have  our  picture  taken.  For — Father's  birth- 
day. Isn't  that  fine?" 

Thomas  was  interested  but  not  enthusiastic. 

"Do  I  have  to  get  washed?" 

"You  have  to  get  washed  anyhow.  You  might  as  well 
make  up  your  mind  to  that.  Thomas  Stafford,  what  is  that  in 
your  pocket?" 

"Well,  you  needn't  squeal  so.  It's  nothing  but  a  poor 
little  snake.  It's  all  dead,  besides,  it  can't  hurt  you " 

"If  you   think  I'll  have   a  dead  snake   coming   to   the 

dinner-table !    Throw    it   away,    then    go    wash   your 

hands,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

"I  want  to  give  it  to  Cartouche.  I'll  bet  he'd  like  it.  To 
eat." 

"Lions  don't  eat  snakes." 

"Maybe  they  do.  I  want  to  try  him  with  it.  I'll  bet  he 
likes  it  if  I  give  it  to  him." 

"Thomas,  if  Aunty  hears  you  say  I'll  bet  again,  you'll 
go  without  your  supper." 

"Well, — Mr.  Lincoln  says  it.  All  the  time." 


260  THE    FATHER 

Mercy  had  learned  to  crawfish,  too. 

"Oh,  all  right!  Take  it  over  to  Cartouche,  then  hurry 
back.  I  want  to  start  for  the  daguerrier's  soon  's  we're 
ready." 

"Do  we  go  the  bridge  way?" 

"We  do  not.  We  go  up  Post-office  Hill." 

"But  I  want  to  go  the  bridge  way.  It  feels  so  funny, 
when  you  stand  in  the  middle  and  jump  up  and  down.  The 
bridge  goes  rickety-rackety  like  it  would  tumble  down  any 
minute." 

"That's  just  what  it  will  do  one  of  these  days.  Father 
says  it's  a  shame  to  the  county  it  hasn't  been  taken  down 
long  ago." 

Little  Thomas's  face  clouded. 

"If  we  dassent  go  the  bridge  way,  I'd  rather  stay  home. 
Maybe  Jo  Vanny  will  cut  Cartouche's  nails  to-day.  If  he 
did  and  I  wasn't  here  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

Mercy  had  not  the  cruelty  to  shatter  this  hope. 

"You  tell  Jo  Vanny  to  come  over,  right  away.  I  want  to 
give  him  a  bucket  of  cornmeal  to  cook  for  the  monkeys. 
Then  I'll  make  him  promise  that  he  will  not  touch  Car- 
touche unless  you're  there.  Not  even  trim  his  whiskers." 

Reassured,  Thomas  departed,  swinging  his  votive  offer- 
ing by  its  dejected  tail.  Mercy  hurried  into  her  treasured 
blue  delaine,  her  Chantilly  shawl,  her  pearl  necklace.  She 
borrowed  Aunty's  carriage  parasol,  a  small  but  ponderous 
relic  covered  solidly  with  black  crape  and  adorned  with  a 
thick  moss  fringe,  which  made  it  look  like  a  mushroom  in 
mourning.  She  pinned  on  the  tombstone,  thrust  her  round 
arms  into  lacy  Sunday  mitts.  Thomas,  sweetly  docile,  en- 
dured not  only  a  wash  but  a  choking  clean  collar  and  a 
flowing  plaid  tie. 

The  parasol  took  splendidly,  and  you  could  easily  tell 
Mercy  and  Thomas  apart,  but  that  was  about  all  you  could 


THE    FATHER  261 

say.  Despite  the  Iron  Maiden's  clutch  on  his  upper  vertebra 
Thomas  had  moved,  and  his  face  was  smeared  all  over 
Mercy's  shoulder,  while  Mercy  looked  rising  thirty  and  of 
a  morose  disposition.  This  was  due  to  the  head-brace,  which 
dug  steadily  into  her  left  ear.  The  artist  had  posed  her  in 
wistful  grace,  looking  backward  over  one  lovely  shoulder, 
but  between  the  brace  and  the  camera  she  appeared  vin- 
dictive rather  than  wistful.  However,  a  daguerreotype  is  a 
daguerreotype.  If  only  Richard  liked  it!  That  was  all  she 
could  ask. 

When  it  came  to  payment  the  daguerrier  was  a  trifle  re- 
luctant about  accepting  the  hair  brooch.  Mercy  assured  him 
that  Great-grandfather  had  been  the  greatest  shipmaster 
that  ever  sailed  out  of  Salem  Harbor,  but  he  was  not  im- 
pressed. However,  he  owned  that  there  might  be  six  bits' 
worth  of  gold  in  it.  And  he  threw  in  two  glazed-paper  en- 
velopes with  raised  forget-me-nots  on,  for  good  measure. 

Going  home  across  the  bluffs  Thomas  insisted  on  cross- 
ing the  bridge.  It  was  not  a  bridge  but  a  handful  of  groggy 
planks  over  a  deep  gully,  perhaps  fifty  feet  in  depth,  and 
half  a  mile  long.  To  cross  on  it  would  save  a  long,  muddy 
walk. 

"Please,  Mercy!  I  won't  jump,  honest!  We  can  scoot 
right  across,  just  that  quick!" 

"Well "  Mercy  hesitated,  then  yielded.  Some  dis- 
tance down  the  road  she  saw  a  familiar  figure  approaching: 
Frederick  Owen,  toplofty  as  always,  his  fine  long  dove-col- 
ored coat  flung  back,  his  purple  waistcoat  ablaze  with  the 
big  diamonds  that  kept  Bakerstown  dazzled  and  agape.  He 
caught  her  eye:  he  swung  off  his  curly  white  beaver  and 
gave  her  a  roistering  salute.  His  impudent  voice  rang  out: 

"Good  morning,  Beauty!  Wait,  I'll  cross  the  bridge 
with  you.  My  team  is  across  the  gully.  I'll  drive  you  home." 

Mercy  gave  him  a  freezing  nod  and  quickened  her  steps. 


262  THE    FATHER 

Stiff  as  a  ramrod,  she  hurried  on  towards  the  bridge;  but 
as  she  neared  it,  Thomas  let  out  a  surprised  yelp. 

"Look,  Mercy!  Somebody's  started  to  tear  it  down!  Both 
big  boards  are  torn  out!" 

She  looked.  Yes,  the  big  boards  lay  on  the  gully  edge. 
There  remained  but  one  footboard  and  a  hand-hold.  The 
bridge  was  little  more  than  a  cobweb.  It  actually  swayed  in 
the  wind.  Behind  them  Owen  shouted  with  laughter. 

"No  good  running  away,  Beauty!  You'll  have  to  take 
the  long  way  after  all.  Come  back  and  walk  with  me  like 
a  lady." 

Mercy  stared  around  her.  Not  another  soul  in  sight.  She 
was  well  outside  the  village.  The  nearest  farmhouse  was 
half  a  mile  away. 

The  man  laughed  again,  loudly.  Something  in  that 
laugh  drove  the  blood  from  her  heart. 

"Afraid  of  me,  hey?  You  lovely  little  fool!  Here,  don't 
risk  that  bridge!  Don't  you  see  they've  started  to  pull  it 
down?" 

"Thomas!  Run.  Quick!" 

Thomas  shot  across  the  bridge.  Mercy  flashed  after  him. 
The  narrow  board  seemed  to  crumple  under  their  feet. 
As  they  stepped  on  the  farther  edge,  it  swayed  like  a  branch 
in  the  wind. 

"Goody,  didn't  she  rock,  though!" 

"We've  made  it "  Mercy  stood  trembling.  "Now 

he'll  make  it  too " 

He  was  making  it.  He  was  laughing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  and  flourishing  his  hat  and  cane.  He'd  had  some- 
thing to  drink.  A  good  deal  to  drink.  Oh,  hurry,  hurry! 
But  desperate  terror  kept  Mercy  motionless. 

Owen  came  on,  leisurely  and  triumphant.  He  kept  on 
laughing,  that  maudlin,  cheerful  laugh.  Midway  the  bridge 
he  paused  and  flourished  his  hat  again. 


THE    FATHER  263 

That  flourish  was  fatal.  Under  his  feet  the  light  boards 
swung,  tilted,  yielded.  With  a  whoop  of  fright  he  leaped 
forward.  He  reached  the  farther  rim  just  as  the  bridge 
wavered  once  more,  fell.  Had  he  been  sober,  he  could 
have  made  it:  but  his  unsteady  hand  clutched  the  upright 
just  as  it  toppled  down. 

Yet  luck  was  with  him.  Not  a  timber  struck  him.  He 
did  not  even  fall  to  the  bottom  of  the  gully.  Instead,  he 
lunged  against  the  slanting  wall,  then  rolled  and  clawed 
and  tumbled  on  down  by  degrees.  Twice  he  caught  the 
bushes,  but  they  tore  loose.  Clawing,  spraddling,  swearing, 
he  bumped  on,  bumped  on,  till  he  landed  with  a  splash  in 
the  muddy  rivulet  below. 

He  stood  up,  also  by  degrees.  He  regarded  his  once  dove- 
colored  greatcoat,  he  pawed  at  his  unspeakable  trousers, 
his  spattered  purples.  He  picked  up  his  fine  beaver  hat.  Not 
even  the  parent  beaver  would  ever  have  known  her  child. 

Little  Thomas  gazed  down.  He  emitted  a  shocked  giggle. 
That  giggle  was  the  last  straw.  Owen  threw  down  his  hat 
and  jumped  on  it.  His  yells  of  rage  echoed  down  the  gully. 

"Think  this  is  funny,  don't  you!  Jus*  you  wait.  Jus* 
wait  till  I  get  out.  Then  I'll  show  you " 

"Run,  Thomas!" 

"I  want  to  wait  and  see  him  climb  out " 

"Run,  I  tell  you!" 

Thomas  ran.  But  his  sturdy  legs  could  not  keep  up  with 
Mercy's  flying  feet.  He  was  panting  and  breathless  when 
they  reached  the  highroad.  He  was  wabbly  and  indignant 
when  they  stumbled  up  their  own  lane. 

"You're  awful  silly,  Mercy.  He  wouldn't  have  hurt  you. 
Come  along,  let's  tell  Father  how  funny  he  looked.  Like  a 
toad  in  a  mud  puddle " 

"Thomas,  you  listen  to  me.  If  you  ever  tell  one  single 


264  THE    FATHER 

solitary  word  about  this,  I — I'll  make  Father  send  Jo  Vanny 
and  Cartouche  away  forever.  Hear  that!" 

Richard  did  like  the  daguerreotype.  He  wrote  in  detail  to 
that  effect.  Although  he  remarked  that  he  was  never  quite 
certain  whether  he  was  kissing  Mercy  or  the  parasol.  Or 
possibly  little  Thomas.  He  complained,  too,  that  in  her 
white  shawl  with  her  face  turned  a-lack-a-daisy  over  her 
shoulder,  Mercy  put  him  in  mind  of  the  late  Mrs.  Lot  of 
Sodom,  and  that  he  found  on  his  lips  a  taste  of  salt.  And 
was  she  quite  sure  that  she  was  gazing  back  regretfully  at 
Sodom,  and  not  at  that  fellow  back  east. 

But  that  was  just  Richard's  way.  None  the  less,  that 
lurking  fear  for  him,  that  creeping  dread,  drew  closer, 
closer.  Always  heavy  on  her  heart  lay  that  dark  shadow- 
brother  of  Love,  who  is  Fear. 

Why  must  love  be  like  this,  she  wondered.  The  books 
told  you  it  was  all  roses  and  nightingales,  moonlight  and 
dreams.  Much  the  books  knew  about  it!  It  was  joy,  yes, 
but  it  was  joy  all  stained  and  blurred  and  made  bitter  by 
pain,  by  anxiety,  by  rasping,  aching  dread.  It  swung  you 
up  on  a  leaping  flame  of  rapture.  Then  at  a  breath,  a 
word,  that  flame  could  sink  to  ashes  at  your  feet. 

On  the  days  when  Richard's  adoring,  bullying  letters 
were  due,  Mercy  would  be  a  winged  creature,  young 
morning  in  her  eyes,  her  face  a  rose.  But  let  that  letter  be 
delayed  a  day,  two  days.  Mercy  would  not  say  one  word. 
She  would  cook  and  sweep,  and  wash  little  Thomas's  ever- 
lastingly grimy  hands;  she  would  oil  Seth's  cowlick,  and 
cuddle  Adoniram  through  a  lonesome  spell;  she  would 
tend  on  Aunty  and  settle  one  fracas  after  another  between 
the  jealous  Twonnet  and  the  quarrelsome  Jo  Vanny.  But 
she  would  stumble  through  her  hours  like  a  creature  too 
dazed  to  speak  her  grief,  too  stricken  to  fight  against  it. 
Those  days  she  would  sit  in  the  window,  a  basket  of  mend- 


THE    FATHER  265 

ing  in  her  lap,  her  needle  wavering  through  torn  round- 
abouts or  disgraceful  socks.  Why  couldn't  love  be  just  love, 
alone?  Why  must  it  be  so  rooted  and  grounded,  so  woven 
and  interwoven,  so  cruelly  close  with  pain? 

Day  after  day,  night  after  anguished  night,  her  misery 
walked  with  her.  "There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  an- 
other glory  of  the  moon "  To-night,  Donny  had  read 

the  ancient  mystic  words.  Well,  Donny  and  the  Bible  were 
both  wrong.  Glory?  Terror.  Terror  of  the  sun,  the  cruel 
blinding  sun,  that  would  hurl  down  its  pitiless  heat  as  Rich- 
ard rode  those  long,  long  prairie  miles  to  his  meeting-place. 
Another  terror  of  the  moon,  the  pale  malicious  moon,  who 
would  tilt  her  white  lantern  through  the  woods,  reveal  the 
dark  wagon  and  the  cowering  black  faces  within  it  as  clear 
as  day.  Another  terror  of  the  stars,  the  bland,  indifferent 
stars.  They  could  destroy  him  without  an  effort.  They 
wouldn't  turn  traitor  like  the  moon.  Not  they.  They  would 
give  always  a  light  so  faint,  so  dim,  that  for  all  his  strain- 
ing eyes  Richard  could  not  read  the  blazes  on  the  tree- 
trunks.  Baffled,  he  would  turn  from  his  safe  trail  and 
drive  down  the  wrong  road  straight  into  the  group  of  grin- 
ning, triumphant  men.  She  could  hear  Richard's  shout  of 
anger  as  he  saw  he  was  caught.  With  her  burning  eyes  she 
could  see  the  fight,  Richard  alone  against  twenty.  The 
splendor  of  it,  the  desperate  courage,  the  hopelessness.  .  .  . 
And  she  could  see  Richard  pitch  and  fall,  struck  down  by 
a  brutal  fist,  she  could  see  his  dark  head  dabbled  in  red,  his 
beautiful  face  marred,  his  splendid  body  sprawled  limp  and 
moveless 

Oh,  why  was  everything  so  different!  Richard  was  hers. 
She  only  should  possess  him.  But  nothing  was  sure  any 
more,  nothing  was  certain,  nothing  was  sure  but  terror. 

She  stood  up.  She  lifted  her  arms,  she  stretched  her 
slight  body,  as  if  she  would  stretch  it  into  wings  to  shield 


266  THE    FATHER 

him.  If  only  she  could  make  of  her  body  a  shield,  if  only 
she  could  take  the  blows,  the  pain !  How  could  she  sit  here 
in  the  moonlight,  so  still  and  useless  and  whole,  when  in 
her  flesh  she  knew  the  suffering  of  his  blows,  when  in  her 
body  she  knew  the  thirst,  the  hunger,  the  deathly  weari- 
ness! 

Night  after  night  she  sat  in  her  dark  little  room,  till  the 
blackness  grew  thin,  translucent,  and  the  eastern  sky  grew 
pale,  cool  silver.  Then  a  deeper  flame  would  mount  the 
horizon  and,  as  if  wide  curtains  were  drawn  by  a  silent 
mighty  Hand,  that  fiery  splendor  would  pour  up  in  a  vast 
wave.  Flame  and  rose,  flame  and  rose,  and  then  the  living 
amber  over  the  prairie.  And  down  by  the  well  the  little 
peach-pie  trees  would  waken  and  murmur  among  them- 
selves as  if  they  were  wondering  why  they  had  to  put  up 
with  just  silky  little  leaves. 

"Only  leaves  this  year.  But  next  year  many  blossoms 
and  soft  velvet  fruit.  And  we  know  that,  and  we  can 
wait." 

And  then  the  waking  voices  downstairs,  the  happy  chirp 
of  the  little  boys,  Twonnet's  shrill  scolding,  Jo  Vanny's 
clattering  Sicilian  in  reply. 

And  before  her  stretched  the  blank  misery  of  the  coming 
hours.  Hours  to  be  filled,  somehow,  with  work  that  must  be 
done.  Hours  that  would  drag,  and  drag,  and  drag  her  with 
them,  chained,  staring.   .  .   . 

Then  the  little  boys'  voices  would  swell  to  a  rejoiceful 
whoop. 

"Mercy!  Mercy  Rose,  hurry  quick!  Here  comes  Rich- 
ard! Richard!" 

Her  foot  would  not  touch  the  loft  stairs,  even.  She  did 
not  need  to  take  one  step.  For  that  vast  prairie  light  had 
swept  her  away,  swept  her  down  on  a  flood  of  joy  that  all 
but  drowned  her.  She  was  out  of  the  house,  she  had  flashed 


THE    FATHER  267 

across  the  yard,  she  was  clutching  Firefly's  bridle  before 
Richard  could  spring  down.  Richard,  with  his  haggard, 
dirty  face,  and  his  outrageous  dirty  hands,  and  a  red  and 
black  powder  burn  across  his  cheek,  Richard,  dog-tired,  but 
alive  and  whole,  and  hungry  as  a  starved  wolf.  He  would 
snatch  her  up  and  shake  her  till  her  teeth  chattered  and 
give  her  one  rough,  hasty  kiss,  and  then  dash  for  the 
wash-bench  and  scrub  his  unspeakable  hands,  and  mean- 
while turn  his  passionately  yearning  gaze  on  the  kitchen 
door. 

"Naw,  not  one  mouthful  since  we  started  yesterday 
afternoon.  No,  nor  a  drop  of  water.  They  made  us  step, 
you  bet.  Haul  up  a  bucket  of  cold  water  for  Firefly  and 
me.  I'm  famishing.  I'll  drink  a  whole  bucket  myself.  Sau- 
sages!   Didn't  I  dream  about  'em     the  whole  night  long? 

Yes,    and    fried   potatoes,    and   pancakes Gosh!    Oh, 

Gosh!" 

And  he  would  eat  and  laugh,  and  laugh  and  eat.  Then 
with  a  leap  he  and  Firefly  would  be  off  and  away.  And  she 
would  go  blundering  and  stumbling  through  the  day,  so 
blind  with  ecstasy  that  she  groped  and  boggled  and  spilled 
everything  she  touched. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SIX 

THREE  gods  did  Jo  Vanny  worship.  And  his  little 
heart  swelled  with  adoration  at  the  thought  of  each 
and  every  one.  First  came  Father.  To  Father  who  had 
saved  him  and  his  dear  animals  from  starvation,  who  stood 
between  him  and  the  jeering  Bakersfield  rowdies,  he  lifted 
up  his  lonely  little  heart.  For  to  Jo  Vanny,  Father  held  the 
power  of  life  and  death  in  his  strong,  kind  hands. 

Next  to  Father  came  Mr.  Lincoln.  Mr.  Lincoln  stood 
by  Jo  Vanny  exactly  as  he  stood  by  everybody,  thought 
Mercy.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  a  strong  tower.  He  was  a  great 
rock  in  a  weary  land.  Always  Mr.  Lincoln  understood.  He 
knew  even  better  than  Father  could  know,  how  passionately 
Jo  Vanny  loved  his  animals,  how  hungrily  he  snatched  at 
every  word  of  praise  for  his  little  show.  Mercy  had  seen 
Jo  Vanny  actually  prance  and  strut  with  upblown  pride, 
the  days  when  Mr.  Lincoln  led  a  trail  of  ecstatic  small  boys 
into  his  battered  little  tent.  And  Mercy  had  seen  the  look 
on  Jo  Vanny's  face,  the  night  that  Mr.  Lincoln  came  home 
from  St.  Louis  and  brought  Jo  Vanny  his  violin. 

"First  I  wanted  to  laugh.  For  Jo  Vanny's  eyes  were 
sticking  out  of  his  head,"  she  wrote.  "And  then  I  wanted 
to  cry.  For  Jo  Vanny  stood  there  afraid  to  touch  that  fiddle, 
afraid  to  put  out  his  hand,  even.  He  was  trembling  all  over, 
he  was  so  scared  for  fear  he'd  wake  up  and  find  it  was  just 
a  dream!  At  last  Mr.  Lincoln  said,  'Come  on  now,  Jo 
Vanny,  it  won't  bite,'  and  he  put  out  his  poor  little  shaky 
hand  and  clutched  it,  and  then  he  ran  away  as  fast  as  he 
could  scoot.  As  if  he  was  afraid  that  Mr.  Lincoln  would 
snatch  it  back.  And  I  haven't  seen  it  but  once,  since  then. 


THE    FATHER  269 

I've  heard  him  fiddling  at  night,  sometimes.  Donny  says  he 
sleeps  with  it  under  his  pillow.  And  Seth  says  he  says  his 
prayers  to  it." 

So  Mr.  Lincoln  was  Jo  Vanny's  second  god.  And  Jo 
Vanny  loved  him  and  revered  him  with  a  full  heart.  But  to 
his  third  god  he  offered  piteous  libations,  wrung  from  his 
sad,  bewildered  little  soul.  For  his  third  god  was  Richard. 

Ever  since  the  first  day  Richard  appeared,  little  Jo  Vanny 
had  looked  on  him  with  proud  wonder.  Richard  was  so 
tall,  so  strong,  so  breezy  and  assured!  Richard  was  every- 
thing that  Jo  Vanny  was  not.  Poor  little  Jo  Vanny  could 
only  gaze  and  gaze  and  marvel.  There  was  no  taint  of 
envy  in  his  gentle  little  heart.  The  son  of  another  nation 
might  have  dreamed  that  in  time  he  could  aspire  to  Rich- 
ard's likeness.  But  not  Jo  Vanny.  For  he  had  a  piteous 
wisdom.  He  knew  how  far  he  was  from  reaching  Richard, 
how  deep  and  wide  was  the  gulf  between  them.  He  could 
only  stand  and  wonder  before  him,  with  the  puzzled  won- 
der of  a  grieved  yet  a  loyal  child. 

But  to  Father  he  poured  out  all  his  devotion.  Inconven- 
ient devotion  it  was,  alas,  and  calculated  to  ruffle  the  tem- 
per of  a  saint.  But  Father  held  fast  to  his  wavering  patience. 
For  Jo  Vanny  was  so  eager,  so  full  of  radiant  faith.  How 
could  Father  bear  to  frown  on  him,  to  hurt  this  tremulous 
little  worshiper  by  glance  or  word! 

"He's  the  very  spirit  of  gratitude,"  said  Father  to  Mercy. 
"He  loves  us  all  so  devotedly,  he  never  forgets  for  one 
moment  what  he  owes  us.  He  longs  to  repay  a  thousand 
times  over,  the  little  that  we  have  done  for  him.  He'd  give 
his  life  for  us,  daughter." 

"I  know  he  would.  I'm  ashamed,  Father.  But  if  he'd 
only  stop  taking  the  little  boys  to  medicine  shows,  and  buy- 
ing you  those  awful  striped  pink  shirts " 

Mercy  ended  on  a  hopeless  chuckle.   It  was  Jo  Vanny 


27o  THE    FATHER 

who  had  trudged  through  the  Bakerstown  streets  day  after 
day  last  week,  the  three  little  boys  tagging  joyfully  at  his 
heels,  in  pursuit  of  an  Indian  medicine  show;  with  the  sad 
result  that  Thomas  came  home  choking  with  croup,  and 
Seth  brought  back  three  startling  new  swear-words,  which 
earned  him  a  spanking  and  a  bread-and-water  supper,  and 
Donny  dragged  in  an  hour  later,  pale  and  limp  from  too 
free  an  indulgence  in  a  large  black  sample  bottle.  It  was 
Jo  Vanny,  armed  with  the  seven  dollars  and  twenty  cents 
which  were  his  whole  months'  gains,  who  rode  into  town 
with  the  neighborly  Mr.  Isaiah  and  came  back  loaded  with 
gifts  for  his  dear  protectors.  A  sack  of  virulent  green  stick- 
candy  for  the  little  boys,  a  bunch  of  hair-ribbons  for  Mercy, 
a  flaming  brass  neckchain  for  Aunty,  and  a  poisonous 
magenta  vest  barred  the  climax. 

"It's  just  like  the  medicine  man's,  Father,"  Seth  sighed,  in 
awe.  "And  looky  the  galluses  he  brought  you.  They've  got 
a  lily  and  a  dove  embroidered  on  'em!  Plain  as  day!" 

"No  denying  it."  Father's  voice  was  a  trifle  dry.  And  Jo 
Vanny,  pale  with  joy  because  his  idol  looked  upon  his  gifts 
with  favor,  hied  himself  back  to  the  Bakerstown  Em- 
porium, and  added  a  necktie  to  his  lavish  heap.  A  necktie 
which  rivaled  the  prairie  sunsets  in  glory. 

All  these  things  could  be  endured.  But  when  it  came  to 
the  animals!  True,  Father  had  sternly  forbidden  Jo  Vanny 
to  bring  any  of  his  dear  ones  to  the  house.  Obediently 
had  Jo  Vanny  promised,  only  to  forget  by  the  following 
day.  He  did  his  few  and  casual  chores  with  a  monkey  or 
so  perched  on  his  shoulder.  The  monkeys,  growing  bored, 
would  scamper  off  his  arm  and  slip  into  the  kitchen.  Aunty 
would  find  them  prying  into  the  cake-box,  stealing  nutmeg 
and  ginger  from  the  cupboard,  wrenching  open  her  pre- 
serve jars.  On  the  momentous  afternoon  when  Aunty  was 


THE    FATHER  271 

entertaining  the  Bakerstown  Dorcas  Society,  he  strolled 
over,  leading  Cartouche  on  a  piece  of  frazzled  wire  in  lieu 
of  a  leash.  He  looped  the  wire  over  the  woodshed  door,  then 
set  to  chopping  kindling. 

Cartouche  caught  a  whiff  of  hot  doughnut.  Hopefully 
he  followed  his  nose  to  the  swept  and  garnished  living- 
room  where  the  eighteen  Dorcases  were  enjoying  light 
refreshments. 

Ensued  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death.  As  Aunty  re- 
marked grimly  it  was  bad  enough  to  be  known  as  Abo- 
litionists without  the  added  ignominy  of  wild  beast  tamers. 

Mercy's  irritation  against  Jo  Vanny  had  even  a  graver 
basis.  Throughout  their  young  lives  she  had  labored  to  bring 
up  the  little  boys  in  the  strait  and  narrow  path  of  the  nail- 
brush. From  infancy  she  had  exhorted  them,  "If  you  want 
to  amount  to  anything  in  this  world,  you've  got  to  keep 
scrubbed.  Scrub  up  every  single  day."  Formerly  they  had 
given  heedful  ear.  But  along  came  Jo  Vanny,  who  never 
scrubbed  at  all.  And  in  spite  of  this  drawback,  had  he  not 
acquired  a  red  wagon  with  gilt  wheels,  a  lion,  a  cageful 
of  charming  monkeys?    Discipline  tottered  on  its  throne. 

All  this  annoyance  came  to  a  head  on  a  certain  Sunday 
morning.  Jo  Vanny  had  appeared  bright  and  early  to  wash 
up  the  carryall.  Cartouche  had  seemed  ailing,  so  Jo  Vanny 
had  brought  him  along  and  put  him  on  the  back  of  the 
carryall  while  he  cleaned  the  muddy  wheels.  Cartouche  was 
drowsy.  The  cushions  were  soft.  He  went  fast  asleep.  And 
Jo  Vanny  forgot  him. 

By  this  time,  Button  and  Betsy  had  grown  so  used  to 
the  jungle  odor  which  emanated  always  from  Jo  Vanny's 
raiment  that  when  he  hitched  them  to  the  carryall  they 
merely  whickered  disapproval  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Mercy  and  the  boys  had  set  off  early  to  Sabbath  school. 


272  THE    FATHER 

Father  and  Aunty  were  driving  in  to  church.  Father  sniffed 
disgustedly  as  he  lifted  Aunty  into  the  front  seat. 

"On  my  word,  I'll  have  to  clean  the  carryall  myself. 
That  animal  scent  grows  stronger  and  stronger  every  time 
Jo  Vanny  comes  on  the  place." 

Behind  him,  Cartouche  snoozed  contentedly.  Many  a 
year,  during  his  circus  days,  Cartouche  had  slept  in  a  jolting 
van,  without  lifting  an  eye-winker.  But  as  they  turned  into 
the  churchyard,  he  sat  up  and  inspected  his  surroundings 
with  mild  interest. 

But  mild  interest  was  not  the  emotion  which  greeted  his 
appearance.  Deacon  Willis's  aged  and  dignified  team  took 
one  whirl,  one  glance:  they  lifted  over  the  stake-and-rider 
fence  like  two  trained  hunters,  the  staid  old  chaise  clatter- 
ing behind  them.  Mr.  Newbury's  valuable  bay  ripped  his 
halter  and  tried  to  climb  the  nearest  sycamore.  Failing  in 
that,  he  galloped  straight  down  the  lane,  followed  by  all 
the  horses  that  could  tear  themselves  loose  from  their  hitch- 
ing posts.  The  Bedlam  that  ensued  brought  the  congrega- 
tion rushing  to  the  rescue,  and  broke  up  the  service.  It  was 
nearly  an  hour  before  the  frantic  horses  were  calmed  down, 
and  Father,  scarlet  and  fuming,  had  discovered  the  cause 
of  the  riot,  and  had  driven  Cartouche  home.  As  he  en- 
tered the  barnyard,  Jo  Vanny  rushed  to  seize  his  treasure. 

"Me,  I  lef  heem.  In  back  seat.  I  all  forgot " 

"You  all  forgot,  eh?  That's  more  than  any  United 
Presbyterian  in  this  county  will  do.  For  all  eternity.  Take 
that  creature  to  your  shack.  The  next  time  I  catch  him 
rambling  outside  your  door,  he  stays  out.  So  do  you.  And 
your  monkeys.  And  everything  else.  I'm  at  the  end  of  my 
rope  with  you." 

Jo  Vanny  grasped  that  all  was  not  well.  For  a  week,  he 
kept  the  animals  in  rigid  bounds.  Then  one  morning  a  very 
queer  thing  happened. 


THE    FATHER  273 

Jo  Vanny  had  been  told  to  clean  the  cow-shed.  The  shed 
was  half  a  mile  from  his  shack,  and  meant  a  full  morning's 
work. 

Now  back  in  Jo  Vanny's  mind  was  always  the  dread  lest, 
while  he  was  away,  some  thief  might  creep  in  and  steal 
Cartouche.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  take  a 
valorous  thief  indeed  to  carry  off  a  large  elderly  lion.  But 
this  fear  haunted  him  always. 

Now  Father  had  gone  to  town  and  had  taken  Mercy 
with  him.  The  little  boys  were  at  school.  Only  Aunty  was 
in  the  cabin.  Jo  Vanny,  mindful  of  father's  ultimatum,  yet 
decided  to  take  a  chance. 

As  he  stood  in  his  doorway  considering,  down  the  big 
road  tore  a  small  rickety  covered  wagon,  drawn  by  two 
galloping  horses.  The  wagon  stopped  below  his  lot.  Out 
sprang  Richard  Harrison.  He  came  racing  up  the  lane. 

Jo  Vanny  regarded  him  with  solemn  joy.  Richard,  his 
god,  Richard  the  beloved  of  Jo  Vanny's  beautiful  lady! 
Who  could  be  more  welcome? 

But  to-day  Richard  was  not  on  pleasure  bent.  He  stood 
panting  and  clutching  into  his  pockets.  From  them  he  pres- 
ently extracted  two  gleaming,  gorgeous  silver  dollars. 

"This  is  every  cent — I've  got,"  he  gasped.  "Give  you 
more — if  I  had  it.  Tve  got  three  runaways  here.  The 
slavers  are  out  after  me,  full  tilt.  You  let  the  negroes  hide 
here,  then  you  clear  out.  Go  over  to  the  big  house — any- 
where. Ten  chances  to  one,  the  hunters  won't  search  your 
zoo.  If  they  do,  why — you  don't  know  anything  about  them 
— you  won't  even  see  where  I  hide  'em.  See?" 

Jo  Vanny  did  not  see  at  all.  He  did  grasp  the  lovely 
reality  of  those  silver  dollars.  He  observed  with  bewilder- 
ment the  three  shivering,  tottering  fugitives  that  the  young 
man  hustled  indoors  and  crowded  into  the  straw  pile  be- 
hind the  monkeys'  cages.  These  were   dark  people,   even 


274  THE    FATHER 

darker  than  Twonnet  and  himself.  But  that  was  a  small 
matter.  What  did  matter  was  the  fact  that  he  now  had  an 
excellent  excuse  for  keeping  Cartouche  with  him.  For  who 
could  know  what  base  plans  these  strange  dark  people  might 
cherish? 

Away  down  the  road  tore  the  little  covered  wagon,  rock- 
ing like  a  ship  at  sea.  Very  disposedly  Jo  Vanny  led  Car- 
touche to  the  barn  and  tied  him  up  with  a  wisp  of  clothes- 
line. 

He  had  just  set  to  work  when  he  perceived  three  men, 
all  armed,  coming  at  a  gallop  up  to  the  house  door.  Stran- 
gers, two  of  them.  But  at  sight  of  the  third,  Jo  Vanny 
bristled  a  shade.  The  third  man  was  not  a  stranger.  He 
was  Frederick  Owen,  whom  Jo  Vanny  knew  by  most  un- 
pleasant repute — to  say  nothing  of  direct  and  odious  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  On  Jo  Vanny's  recent  venture  into  the 
great  world  of  Bakerstown,  when  he  had  driven  his  proud 
caravan  into  town  for  a  lively  Saturday  evening,  Frederick 
Owen  had  been  among  the  rough  crowd  that  greeted  him, 
with  deafening  whoops  and  jeers.  More  heinous  still,  he 
had  swung  his  limber  cattle-whip  and  taken  Jo  Vanny's 
dearest  monkey  under  the  chin  with  a  clip  which  brought 
the  blood  and  sent  the  little  fellow  into  shrieks  of  terror 
and  pain.  When  Jo  Vanny  chattered  protest,  Frederick  had 
merely  swung  the  cruel  little  cracker  and  taken  Jo  Vanny 
under  the  chin,  likewise.  The  crowd  had  yelled  apprecia- 
tion. Jo  Vanny  had  crawled  trembling  away  down  a  side 
street.  His  little  heart  was  just  a  bubbling  cup  of  fury.  That 
fury  seethed  afresh  at  sight  of  the  handsome,  insolent  boy. 

To  do  Owen  fair  justice,  he  had  ridden  out  with  the 
slave  hunters  with  no  especial  malice  aforethought.  Merely 
there  was  about  to  be  some  pleasing  excitement  at  that  blue- 
nosed  editor's  expense.  Why  not  go  along  and  see  it? 

But  Jo  Vanny  took  his  coming  very  seriously  indeed. 


THE    FATHER  275 

Almost  as  seriously  as  he  took  the  appearance  of  the  two 
hunters  themselves. 

These  gentlemen  had  now  reached  the  house  door.  One 
of  them  flung  his  bridle  rein  over  the  hitching  post  and 
pounded  heavily  on  the  door. 

Jo  Vanny  looked  on  with  interest.  He  saw  Aunty  open 
the  door.  Then  at  the  man's  first  word,  he  saw  her  slam  it 
shut.  Not  quite  shut,  for  the  man  jammed  an  ample  foot 
into  the  crack,  and  proceeded  to  shout  at  her.  Loud  and 
insulting  shouts,  at  that. 

Jo  Vanny  reflected.  Back  in  his  own  dear  Sicily  he  had 
seen  the  tax-collector  on  his  too-frequent  visits.  This  was 
something  new  for  America.  He  did  not  like  it  at  all.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do,  for  his  small  brittle  body  would 
not  last  one  minute  in  these  ruffians's  hands.  However,  it 
occurred  to  his  gentle  Latin  mind  that  Cartouche  might 
come  in  handy.  He  stepped  into  the  barn,  untied  the 
clothesline,  and  shooed  Cartouche  through  the  door. 

For  all  his  amiability,  Cartouche  was  not  quite  himself 
that  morning.  Mercy  had  promised  him  some  butchers' 
scraps  from  town,  but  the  waiting  had  proved  too  long.  He 
did  not  care  for  these  men.  They  had  not  even  looked  his 
way,  which  was  disrespectful.  Their  horses  stood  with 
heads  drooped,  snatching  at  mouth fuls  of  clover. 

Suddenly  one  horse  wheeled,  quivered:  then  with  a 
shriek  of  terror  he  bolted  at  a  whirlwind  gallop.  The  second 
horse  followed  without  even  waiting  to  shriek. 

The  first  slave-hunter  turned,  and  stared  dizzily.  If  his 
eyes  did  not  deceive  him,  a  lion,  a  large  fretful-looking 
lion,  was  standing  in  the  barn  door. 

As  the  hunter  stared,  unwittingly  he  removed  his  large 
foot  from  the  crack.  Instantly  Aunty  slammed  and  bolted 
the  door. 

"Lemme  in!  For  God's  sake,  lemme  in!" 


276  THE    FATHER 

Frenziedly  he  pounded  on  the  locked  door.  Much  good 
that  did  him.  Behind  it,  poor  Aunty  had  dropped  to  the 
floor  in  a  dead  faint. 

Cartouche  was  coming  on,  in  long  graceful  flowing  leaps, 
graceful  as  the  mighty  winged  lions,  immortal  keepers  of 
the  gates  of  Babylon.  But  all  that  beauty  of  motion  was  lost 
on  the  hunter.  Howling,  he  leaped  for  the  first  sanctuary 
in  sight:  the  corncrib.  He  fell  inside,  just  as  Cartouche's 
huge  paw  struck  the  crib  door. 

Cartouche  was  irritated.  At  feeding  time  on  the  flat- 
boat,  the  men  had  behaved  in  exactly  this  playful  manner. 
They  would  offer  him  a  chunk  of  meat.  Then  as  he  grabbed 
for  it,  they  would  snatch  it  back  and  run  gayly  away.  He 
looked  around  him  for  the  second  hunter. 

The  second  hunter  was  stout  but  light  on  his  feet.  He  had 
reached  the  barn  ridgepole  in  less  than  it  takes  to  tell  it. 

Cartouche's  irritation  grew.  This  horseplay  was  not  to  his 
taste.  He'd  stay  and  keep  watch  till  they  handed  him  his 
meat  or  know  the  reason  why. 

So  he  opened  his  massive  jaws  and  gave  a  couple  of 
coughing  roars,  like  the  rasp  of  a  Titanic  nutmeg  against 
a  colossal  grater. 

Now  to  Frederick  Owen,  those  roars  were  emphatically 
the  last  straw.  At  their  thunderous  reverberation  he  turned 
distinctly  green.  From  his  perch  on  the  barn  ladder,  he 
took  one  despairing  glance  at  Cartouche:  then  he  shot  to 
the  top  rung,  and  plunged  into  the  loft.  He  sank  to  his  ears 
into  the  bristling  deeps  of  the  haymow. 

Cartouche  now  sat  down  to  await  events.  So  did  Jo 
Vanny. 

After  an  hour  or  so,  Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  drove  up. 
Button  merely  snorted,  but  Mr.  Lincoln's  Old  Tom 
pranced  and  kicked  and  had  to  be  escorted  down  the  lane 
and  pacified. 


THE    FATHER  277 

Father  was  furious. 

"Will  you  look  at  that!  I'll  have  to  send  the  little  scamp 
away.  I  will  not  tolerate  this  another  hour." 

"Steady,  Stafford."  Mr.  Lincoln  grinned.  "Don't  chase 
Cartouche  off  quite  yet.  Hasn't  he  treed  something?" 

Jo  Vanny  had  watched  their  arrival.  He  smiled.  A  gen- 
erous dash  of  humor  had  been  included  in  Jo  Vanny's 
make-up.  He  had  enjoyed  this  hour  hugely.  As  the  two 
men  tied  their  horses  down  the  lane  he  reflected  that  he 
could  now  collect  his  lion.  He  strolled  down  the  yard  lead- 
ing the  grouchy  Cartouche  like  a  Brobdingnagian  puppy  on 
a  string. 

The  two  listened.  They  surveyed  Exhibit  A,  now  gibber- 
ing in  the  corncrib,  and  threatening  to  have  the  law  on 
Father  and  all  his  kinsfolk  for  trainin'  a  savage  brute  to 
tarrify  honest  men  out  of  doin'  their  bounden  duty.  They 
gazed  up  at  Exhibit  B,  who  still  bestrode  the  ridgepole, 
crimson  and  sweating  in  the  blazing  sun  and  looking  as 
foolish  as  any  distraught  fat  man  need  ever  hope  to  do. 

Now  from  the  kitchen  came  Aunty  and  the  camphor 
bottle.  This  experience  had  not  been  funny  for  Aunty. 
Far  from  it.  At  sight  of  her  bruised  arm,  her  quivering  old 
mouth,  Father's  face  grew  hard.  Mr.  Lincoln  sucked  down 
his  upper  lip.  He  looked  like  a  hanging  judge,  resolved  to 
mete  out  vengeance  though  the  heavens  fell. 

"I've  heard  you  fellows'  side.  Seen  it,  too.  Strikes  me 
this  is  a  clear  case,  Mr.  Stafford,  of  assault  and  battery, 
trespass,  and  a  few  other  offenses.  Here  you've  intimidated 
this  lady,  mistreated  her  as  well.  Further,  you  broke  your 
way  into  another  man's  property — I  mean  corncrib " 

"Broke  into  the  corncrib My  gosh,  and  that  dam' 

lion  grabbing  for  my  boots  as  I  jumped  in " 

"Mr.  Stafford  can  bring  very  serious  charges  against  you. 
You'll  swear  out  a  warrant  at  once,  Stafford?" 


278  THE    FATHER 

"Will  I?  And  one  for  murderous  assault  on  Aunty " 

Exhibit  B  had  heard  all  that  he  desired  to  hear.  So 
had  Frederick  Owen,  in  his  smothering  retreat  in  the  loft. 
With  a  despairing  yell,  Exhibit  B  scrambled  down  from 
the  roof  and  made  for  the  highroad.  After  him,  full 
speed  ahead,  tore  Exhibit  A.  And  well  in  the  rear,  but 
taking  a  pace  that  astounded  his  audience,  an  aura  of  hay 
surrounding  him  like  a  dusty  mantle,  fled  Frederick  Owen. 

"Me,  I  seenk  they  will  not  hurry  so  queek  back,"  re- 
marked Jo  Vanny. 

"But  what  has  become  of  the  refugees?" 

"They  play  wis  ze  monk." 

They  play  wis  ze  monk,  indeed.  They  were  crouched  in 
the  red  and  gilt  van,  cowering  but  safe. 

— Late  that  night,  Richard  drove  up  in  his  wagon  and 
carried  the  refugees  away.  And  with  him  as  always  went 
Mercy's  self.  All  her  life  and  sparkle,  all  her  rapture  and 
delight.  For  he  held  her  in  his  hand,  her  life,  her  will. 
She  was  just  a  second  pulse,  a  second  breath. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVEN 

THE  August  days  flamed  by,  great  gilt  chariots  of  fire. 
The  prairie  grass  had  turned  yet  a  deeper  emerald 
under  the  July  thunderstorms  that  rocked  the  earth.  Then 
with  the  passing  weeks  it  veered  to  orange-tawny,  to  a 
sweep  of  parched  and  brittle  gold.  With  the  great  heat 
that  scorched  there  came  the  Fever.  Not  the  destroyer  that 
had  laid  waste  the  Southern  country  years  before.  This 
was  a  milder  epidemic.  It  passed  within  the  month.  But 
while  its  time  held  it  spelled  destruction. 

"The  fever  is  sort  of  notional, "  wrote  Mercy.  "It  strikes 
hit-or-miss.  Over  in  Cooper  Township  it  has  taken  one 
child  out  of  every  family  just  like  the  Plague  of  Egypt,  the 
terror  that  walketh  by  noonday.  Here  in  our  neighborhood 
nobody  has  had  a  touch  even.  But  right  over  in  Summer 
County  it  has  wiped  out  one  family  after  another.  And  it 
has  taken  the  father  and  the  mother  from  eight  houses  in 
Brandonville.  Father  let  the  paper  go  by  and  he  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  waded  right  in  and  nursed  the  sick  folks  and  buried 
the  dead  for  'most  a  month.  Then  last  week  Mr.  Lincoln 
bought  a  load  of  boards  and  Father  and  he  put  up  a  new 
shack,  just  boards  and  thatch  roof  alongside  of  Mount 
Everest.  And  we've  taken  the  little  Worrell  children,  five 
of  them,  and  the  Carews, — there's  only  four  of  them, 
though,  and  Jessie  and  both  twins  are  old  enough  to  help 
a  lot.  And  we're  going  to  keep  them  with  us  till  the  town 
meeting  figures  out  what  to  do  with  them.  The  Worrells 
have  kin  back  east.  Poor  folks,  though.  But  the  Carews 
haven't  one  living  kin.  We  couldn't  feed  them,  only  all  the 


280  THE    FATHER 

subscribers  paid  Father  with  the  farm  stuff  this  spring  and 
we  have  about  a  ton  of  new  wheat  stored  in  the  barn.  Be- 
sides that  the  whole  town  is  helping  out.  These  folks  may 
be  scared,  but  they're  good  as  gold  down  inside.  Colonel 
Andrews  drives  out  every  week  with  a  load  of  sweet  corn 
and  harvest  apples  and  butter,  and  Mrs.  Isaiah  brings  butter 
and  eggs  and  always  a  great  baking,  and  other  folks  have 
lent  us  blankets.  And  old  Mrs.  Carter  jumps  on  her  horse 
and  comes  out  with  two  bushel  baskets  of  sugar  every  single 
week.  It  certainly  is  lucky  for  us  that  our  well  never  runs 
dry.  My,  but  we  use  up  gallons  and  gallons  every  day! 

"Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  put  up  a  long  board  table  with 
benches  outside  for  us  all  to  eat  on.  We  can't  get  all  the 
children  into  the  house  at  once.  Yes,  and  Mr.  Lincoln 
bought  us  a  new  cow  so's  we  could  have  plenty  of  milk,  and 
he  never  comes  out  without  bringing  a  ham,  or  a  whole  leg 
of  beef,  or  maybe  a  roasting  pig.  It  keeps  me  on  the  jump, 
cooking.  But  it  is  lots  of  fun  to  have  them  all  here. 

"Aunty  made  up  four  gallons  of  thieves'  vinegar  for 
each  of  us  to  take  a  wineglass  full  each  day.  That  was  to 
keep  us  from  catching  the  fever.  But  it  had  spice  and 
molasses  in  it,  so  the  little  boys  gobbled  it  all  up  inside 
of  a  week. 

"I  suppose  the  Worrell's  kin  will  be  bound  to  have  them, 
but  I  hope  we  can  keep  the  Carews  always,  they  are  such 
duckies. 

"The  little  boys  are  pleased  to  pieces  for  they  think  an 
Epidemic  is  a  sort  of  picnic,  because  the  children  are  here 
and  we  eat  outdoors  and  drink  out  of  tin  cups.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln bought  them  in  Springfield,  because  he  knew  I 
wouldn't  have  dishes  enough.  He  came  banging  and  clat- 
tering out  on  Old  Tom  with  a  string  of  cups  hung  over 
one  shoulder  and  an  elegant  new  skillet  slung  on  his  back, 
just  like  a  peddler.  Mr.  Lincoln  is  the  grandest  neighbor 


THE    FATHER  281 

we've  got.  Aunty  used  to  say  he  didn't  pretty  up  much,  but 
Father  always  told  her  he  was  a  singed  cat,  and  more  to  him 
than  meets  the  eye.  And  Father  was  right.  Last  week,  he  got 
paid  up  for  a  tremendous  big  patent  case  he  won  for  some 
folks  in  Cincinnati.  He  got  the  biggest  fee  I  ever  heard 
tell  of.  Ninety-five  dollars  and  fifty  cents.  And  didn't  he 
come  tearing  out  from  town  with  a  great  big  roasting  over- 
coat on  his  arm.  He  says,  while  he  was  away  in  Cincinnati 
there  was  a  tailors'  sale  of  men's  clothes,  and  Mrs.  Lincoln 
went  down  and  bought  him  this  overcoat,  and  she  got  the 
biggest  one  she  could  find.  But  it  nips  him  through  the 
chest  and  climbs  his  back  so  he  darsn't  flap  his  arms  or 
he'll  split,  and  he  feels  like  a  rooster  with  his  wings  clipped. 
He  asked  Father  to  take  it  off  his  hands.  And  Father  just 
hooted,  but  Aunty  felt  of  the  cloth,  and  then  made  him 
try  it  on.  And  it  fitted  just  like  his  old  one  used  to.  (He 
bought  that  the  winter  before  Donny  was  born.  He  nearly 
froze  in  it  last  winter,  too.)  So  finally  he  said,  'How  much 
is  the  confounded  thing?'  and  Mr.  Lincoln  put  on  that 
Meeky-Moses  look  of  his,  and  said,  'Five  dollars  and  fifty 
cents.'  Aunty  says,  'It  is  the  best  kersey.  At  that  price  it  is 
not  a  bad  bargain.'  And  Father  said,  'I  don't  believe  in 
hanging  all  my  perishing  riches  on  my  mortal  frame,  but  it 
will  come  in  handy  next  winter,'  so  Mr.  Lincoln  took  his 
note  for  it,  and  he  rode  off  looking  pleased  as  Punch. 
Father  always  looks  elegant,  but  come  winter  time,  when 
he  puts  on  that  coat  and  his  best  morocco  boots,  he  will  look 
like  Lord  Byron  in  The  Corsair.  Poor  Mr.  Lincoln  in  that 
big  gray  granny-shawl  of  his  will  be  simply  pitiful  beside 
him. 

"Yesterday,  Father  needed  me  in  the  office,  so  I  went  to 
town  for  all  day.  Frederick  Owen  came  into  the  office  and 
hung  around,  but  I  was  doing  handbills  and  paid  him  no  at- 
tention. I  was  scared,  though,  because  Father  was  out,  and 


282  THE    FATHER 

Frederick  always  scares  me,  I  do  not  know  why.  Finally 
he  said,  'Will  you  not  go  to  the  Baptist  picnic  with  me/ 
and  I  told  him  I  was  not  a  Baptist;  and  then  he  tried  to  be 
funny  and  said,  'You  can  eat  fried  chicken  without  being 
immersed/  but  I  considered  that  that  was  sacreligious,  so  I 
said  nothing.  Then  he  reached  inside  the  top  of  his  patent- 
leather  boot  and  got  out  a  little  dirk,  a  beauty,  with  a 
chased  handle,  all  gold  and  steel,  and  the  blade  chased,  too, 
and  he  said  'This  came  from  Seville  and  it  is  the  finest 
blade  money  can  buy.'  And  he  began  whittling  at  the  office 
wall.  I  pretended  not  to  notice  what  he  was  doing,  but  I 
was  so  curious  I  thought  I  would  burst  and  finally  I  said, 
'Would  you  please  not  to  deface  our  office  wall/  He 
laughed  and  said,  'Do  you  call  it  defacing,  to  carve  your 
lovely  name  on  it,  forever/  and  I  looked,  and  here  he  had 
drawn  a  heart  and  was  cutting  our  initials  inside,  F.  and 
M.  That  made  me  so  mad  I  forgot  I  was  scared  and  a  lady 
and  a  Presbyterian,  and  I  grabbed  up  a  ruler,  and  knocked 
the  knife  out  of  his  hand.  He  tried  to  laugh  but  he  was 
firing  mad  inside,  and  he  said,  'Oh,  all  right,  Beauty,  I 
was  only  carving  it  so  you  would  have  it  to  remember  me 
by,  but  I  will  carve  it  yet.  Carve  it  some  place  where  you 
never  can  forget.'  And  right  then  Father  came  in,  and  he 
looked  Frederick  up  and  down,  the  way  he  does  when  he's 
angry.  Then  his  voice  got  velvety  and  he  said,  T  fear 
my  little  daughter  is  trespassing  on  your  time,  Mr.  Owen. 
We  must  not  allow  her  to  do  that  for  you  are  a  busy  man. 
A  very  busy  man,  and  undoubtedly  needed  in  your  own 
place  of  occupation.'  And  he  picked  up  Frederick  Owen's 
elegant  white  beaver  hat  by  the  rim  and  stuck  it  out  at  him 
as  far  as  he  could  reach,  as  if  it  was  Thomas's  dead  mouse, 
and  kept  on  looking  at  him.  If  Father  ever  looked  at  me  like 
that  I  would  not  wait  to  die.  I  would  curl  right  up  like  a 
caterpiller.  Frederick  Owen  did  not  shrivel,  but  he  kind  of 


THE    FATHER  283 

squirmed,  and  said,  'I  must  be  going,  Miss  Mercy.  My 
invitation  is  still  at  your  disposal.'  And  then  Father  got 
perfectly  white,  and  he  said,  'We  appreciate  your  invita- 
tions, Sir,  but  my  daughter's  time  is  permanently  engaged.' 
And  Frederick  opened  his  mouth  and  started  to  say  some- 
thing but  Father  just  kept  on  looking  at  him,  and  he 
squirmed  some  more  and  finally  went  away.  Then  Father 
set  to  writing,  but  he  broke  the  two  nice  quills  I  had 
sharpened  for  him  and  finally  he  said,  'If  that  yellow  Cur 
speaks  to  you  again  I  will  attend  to  him,'  and  I  said,  'Yes, 
Sir.'  But  that  was  not  a  promise,  for  I  shall  be  very  cautious 
about  telling  Father  if  F.  Owen  should  have  the  Brass  to 
speak  to  me  again.  For  that  dirk  can  cut,  in  spite  of  all  the 
engraving  on  it.  And  as  soon  as  Father  went  out,  I  found 
some  sandpaper  and  rubbed  his  silly  carving  off,  for  if 
Father  ever  saw  it  he  would  certainly  have  a  Gimini  fit. 

"We  tried  to  bring  Mr.  Lincoln  home  to  supper,  but  he 
said,  'Not  to-night,  for  I  am  as  busy  as  a  little  dog  in  high 
oats.  I  have  found  a  book  that  tells  how  to  play  chess  and 
I  intend  to  devote  myself  to  its  perusal  until  I  can  massacre 
your  respected  father  in  cold  blood.'  But  he  could  learn 
it  fast  enough  by  playing  with  Father,  only  they  get  to 
talking  anti-slavery,  and  then  they  get  so  spunky  one  of 
them  is  sure  to  knock  the  board  down  and  spill  everything. 

"Mrs.  Isaiah  invited  Aunty  to  come  over  to  her  garden 
and  pick  out  seedlings  and  roots  and  things  to  plant  in  our 
own  garden  for  next  spring.  So  Aunty  went,  and  she  came 
back  with  her  arms  full.  But  what  do  you  suppose  was  the 
very  first  thing  she  planted!  Bergamot! 

"To-day  the  stage  brought  a  letter  from  Rich.  He  says 
he  is  coming  soon,  for  he  is  sick  and  tired  of  kissing  Mrs. 
Lot,  and  she  is  so  tired  of  him  that  whenever  she  sees  him 
coming  she  runs  out  a  rock  salt  tongue." 


284  THE    FATHER 

Up  the  lane  tore  Button.  Mr.  Stafford  swung  down, 
hurried  into  the  cabin.  Adoniram  jumped  up  eagerly. 

"Hullo,  Father.  Why,  where's  Mr.  Lincoln?  You  said 
he  was  coming  out  to-day." 

"Mr.  Lincoln  will  not  come  out  for  some  time,  Donny." 

"Why  not?  Is  he  sick?" 

"No.  But  there  is  sickness  in  the  family." 

"Who?" 

"Don't  ask  so  many  questions,  son." 

Adoniram  subsided.  Mr.  Stafford  went  into  the  kitchen, 
and  closed  the  door. 

"Aunty,  I  have  bad  news  for  you.  Mr.  Lincoln's  young- 
est boy  is  very  sick." 

Aunty  rose  up  and  seized  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 

"No,  they  don't  need  you.  Half  Springfield  is  there  now, 
trying  to  help.  I'm  going  to  sit  up  with  them  to-night.  I-I 
don't  believe  there  is  much  hope.  I  put  the  Clarion  into 
shape  this  afternoon.  If  I  can't  get  home  to-morrow,  Mercy 
and  Jo  Vanny  can  get  it  out  for  me.  Got  to  hurry  now." 

He  was  off,  at  tearing  speed. 

He  did  not  come  back  until  supper-time,  next  day.  When 
he  did  come,  he  said  nothing.  He  sat  in  the  chimney-corner, 
tired,  silent.  He  would  not  let  the  little  boys  out  of  his  sight. 
He  kept  pulling  Thomas  up  to  him,  holding  him  tight 
against  his  booted  knee. 

Later  he  spoke  briefly  to  Aunty. 

"He  can't  talk  to  anybody  yet.  I  wouldn't  know  what  to 
say  to  him,  for  that  matter.  If  it  was  one  of  my  own — if  it 
was  Mercy!" 

He  broke  off,  staring  at  the  wall.  After  supper,  he  went 
up  to  the  loft.  He  sat  where  he  could  keep  close  watch  on 
those  three  sturdy  armfuls  of  sleep. 

A  week  later,  court  opened  its  fall  session.  On  his  way 


THE    FATHER  285 

to  the  court-house  Mr.  Lincoln  would  ride  down  the  short 
cut,  just  below  the  big  hickory  tree.  So  many  times,  he 
had  ridden  that  way.  Aunty  often  said  she  could  set  her 
clock  by  him,  her  calendar,  too. 

To-day  she  planned,  quietly.  Father  had  gone  to  town 
early.  The  little  boys  were  in  school.  She  sent  Mercy  to 
Mrs.  Isaiah's  on  an  errand. 

Then  she  sat  down  by  the  open  door.  She  sat  there  a  good 
while.  Her  keen  old  eyes  watched  the  road. 

Presently  she  saw  Mr.  Lincoln  approaching.  His  big 
gaunt  body  hung  limp  in  the  saddle.  He  was  all  weariness. 
Tired  body,  beaten  soul. 

Aunty  hurried  spryly  down  the  lane. 

"Morning,  Mr.  Lincoln.  'Light  and  come  in.  I've  been 
waiting  for  you." 

He  stopped  his  horse.  He  looked  around  him  dazed  and 
blank.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  stopped  for  any  other 
human  being.  But  he  could  not  refuse  Aunty.  He  lunged 
off  his  horse.  The  face  he  bent  to  her  was  the  face  of  a 
man  dying  with  thirst. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  anybody."  He  spoke  at  last,  with  a 
dry  tongue. 

"Nobody's  here  but  me.  Come  in." 

She  led  him  in.  He  followed  stupidly,  as  if  he  must 
grope  his  way. 

Aunty  sat  down.  She  waited.  After  a  while,  he  spoke. 

"Reckon  it's  just  as  I  told  you."  He  looked  down  at  her 
dully.  "Reckon  I'm  a  failure.  A  failure  in  everything. 
I  couldn't  even  keep  my  little  son  alive." 

"I  know  how  it  is."  Aunty  spoke  under  her  breath.  "You 
can't  talk  about  it  to  your  wife  for  she  can't  bear  it.  You 
can't  talk  about  it  to  other  folks,  for  they  don't  know  one 
thing  about  it.  But  I'm  'most  eighty,  and  I  do  know."  She 


286  THE    FATHER 

leaned  to  him,  she  put  out  mother-arms,  this  old,  old  woman 
who  had  never  borne  a  child.  "I  know  all  about  it.  You  can 
tell  me." 

They  sat  there  a  long  time,  the  worn  indomitable  old 
woman,  the  big  gangling  defeated  man,  on  his  knees  by  her 
chair,  his  gaunt  head  buried  on  her  caved  old  breast. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-EIGHT 

UGUST,    September,    October No,    it    wasn't 

possible  that  autumn  could  come  so  soon.  To  count  the 
racing  weeks,  the  flying  days,  made  Mercy  dizzy.  In  March 
she  had  gone  to  Antioch,  she  had  met  Richard.  In  May  he 
had  traveled  all  the  way  to  Illinois  to  see  her  just  for  those 
few  days.  That  trip  had  cost  him,  as  she  well  knew,  every 
cent  that  he  had  earned  in  the  two  months  preceding.  In 
July,  he  had  come  again,  and  they  had  celebrated  the  day 
with  the  prairie  fire.  Then  came  two  long  months  with  only 
Richard's  letters  to  keep  life  in  her.  His  last  visit  in  early 
September  had  been  just  a  hurried  glimpse  of  each  other 
snatched  from  one  of  Richard's  Underground  journeys. 
He  had  dared  stay  less  than  a  day.  That  day  their  guardian 
angel  had  conspired  to  hold  inviolate,  their  very  own. 

But  that  was  four  weeks  ago.  Five  weeks.  Five  weeks  and 
three  days  to  be  exact.  And  now  Richard  was  coming  to- 
morrow! Twenty  more  hours  to  wait.  Sixteen  more.  Only 
twelve  more  hours  and  eighteen  minutes! 

Richard  had  come.  Thinner  than  ever  from  his  double 
tasks  of  driving  by  night  and  surveying  whenever  he  could 
get  a  job  at  it  by  day.  Haggard,  dog-tired,  uproariously  joy- 
ful to  see  her,  as  rackety  and  teasing  as  all  three  little 
brothers  put  together.  That  was  the  first  two  minutes  of 
him.  Two  minutes  more  and  all  that  uproar  was  silenced 
and  he  was  her  man,  her  young  grave  lover,  his  gaunt  weary 
eyes  on  her,  clinging  to  her,  as  if  the  very  sight  of  her 
was  food  and  drink  and  rest.  Another  breath;  and  again  he 
was  the  eager  boastful  teasing  little  boy. 

"Daren't  spend  but  this  one  day  with  you,  young  lady. 


288  THE    FATHER 

But  we're  going  to  have  one  glorious  time  of  it.  Didn't 
notice,  what  I'd  brought  along,  did  you?  Girl,  all  over. 
Careless  piece,  you  are.  Never  had  eyes  for  anything  but 
me.  Well,  I'll  overlook  your  heedlessness  this  once.  Look, 
now." 

At  the  hitching  rack  stood  a  smart  high  gig.  Harnessed 
to  it  was  a  stunning  black  team,  the  finest  horses  in  Bakers- 
town. 

"Old  Currier's  team.  He  let  me  hire  them  for  this 
afternoon  as  a  special  favor.  No,  this  trip,  we  do  not  take 
the  little  boys  along.  Nor  Aunty.  Nor  even  Cartouche.  Un- 
derstand that?" 

Now  to  go  riding  publicly  with  your  suitor  was  equivalent 
to  announcing  your  engagement. 

"But,  Richard " 

"There  aren't  any  Buts.  Come  on." 

Only  Mercy  herself  could  tell  the  story  of  that  after- 
noon. Even  her  hand  and  pen  must  fall  far  short. 

"Back  east,  once  in  a  coon's  age,  I  used  to  go  riding 
with  Lemuel  or  Eliphalet  or  Amariah,  with  some  of  their 
aunts,  cousins,  etc.,  along.  But  this  ride  was  different.  It  was 
the  most  elegant  experience  I  ever  expect  to  have,  and  also  it 
became  quite  exciting  along  towards  the  end.  I  mean  after 
we  met  Frederick  Owen  and  his  twin.  But  in  the  begin- 
ning it  was  just  wonderful,  that's  all  I  can  say.  I  had  on 
my  blue  velvet  bonnet  that  Aunty  made  over  this  fall,  and 
Richard  had  some  new  boots  and  a  light  blue  neckerchief, 
with  polka  dots  on  it  just  the  shade  of  my  bonnet,  which 
was  a  very  singular  coincidence.  I  thought  we  would  both 
talk  every  minute,  for  we  had  so  much  to  tell  each  other 
about,  but  neither  of  us  said  one  word,  till  we  had  gone 
away  past  Tuckerman's  woods,  up  the  little  hill. 


THE    FATHER  289 

"There  Richard  stopped  the  horses,  and  hunted  in  his 
pockets  till  he  found  a  little  gold  box,  and  he  opened  it 
and  there  was  the  most  beautiful  ruby  ring.  And  he  said, 
'I  wrote  to  Guardy  and  told  him  that  I  couldn't  force  him 
to  give  me  my  money,  but  that  he'd  got  to  send  me  my 
mother's  betrothal  ring.  My  father  had  given  it  to  her 
because  she  was  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for  him,  and 
now  I  wanted  to  give  it  to  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for 
me.  So  put  up  your  hand,  Mercy.'  Then  I  felt  like  Jezebel 
and  Sapphira  because  I  have  never  yet  told  him  the  exact 
truth  about  Lemuel  G.  Crowther  and  his  hateful  old  lost 
letter  concerning  which  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  what  he 
wrote  in  it.  So  I  began  to  cry,  I  could  not  help  it.  I  felt 
so  guilty  and  yet  I  was  mad  enough  to  bite  Lemuel's  head 
off. 

"Richard  took  hold  of  my  hand  and  put  the  ring  on  and 
kissed  it  to  make  it  stay  always.  Then  I  cried  harder  than 
ever,  because  I  knew  I  was  not  being  honorable  to  accept  it 
before  I  had  absolutely  broken  with  Lemuel  and  yet  it 
looked  so  magnificent  I  could  not  bear  to  take  it  off. 

"Richard  said,  'Why  do  you  cry,  you  darling,  am  I  such 
a  tough  prospect  as  all  that?'  And  that  made  me  laugh, 
which  was  worse  yet. 

"Then  Richard  said  'Stop  shaking  and  blow  your  nose 
and  kiss  me  back,  you  stingy,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  matter. 
I  am  beginning  to  think  this  is  not  a  joke.  Are  you  still 
grieving  over  that  big  sawney  back  east.'  Then  he  began 
to  look  so  black  and  stern,  and  I  had  just  started  to  tell 
him  that  Lemuel  meant  nothing  in  my  life  when  up  the 
hill  comes  the  two  Owens  in  the  most  genteel  new  chaise 
with  maroon  cushions,  both  dressed  up  like  new  sixpences 
and  more  drunk  than  usual.  They  drove  right  alongside 


290  THE    FATHER 

and  cramped  their  rig  so  we  could  not  pass  without  sliding 
down  into  a  deep  gully. 

"I  whispered  to  Richard  to  get  away,  quick,  for  while  I 
do  not  consider  myself  a  Coward,  yet  I  am  so  scared  of  both 
Owens  that  whenever  I  meet  them  it  makes  me  kind  of 
blind  and  sick.  So  Richard  spoke  civilly  and  said,  'Will  you 
kindly  let  us  pass.'  But  Frederick  Owen  yelled  out,  'Why, 
here  is  our  Beauty,  Beauty  and  the  Beast!'  And  Simeon 
says,  'Not  in  a  thousand  years  will  we  let  you  pass.  What 
have  you  been  doing  to  her,  you  great  lout,  to  make  her  cry,' 
and  Richard  told  him,  'None  of  your  business,'  and  tried  to 
scourge  the  horses  past. 

"Then  they  both  hollered  at  him,  and  swore,  and  I 
called  to  please  let  us  by,  but  Frederick  Owen,  the  big 
booby,  sings  out:  'You  are  a  brave  girl,  Beauty,  to  shield 
this  yellow  Cur,  but  we  will  not  see  you  mistreated,  so  we 
will  rescue  you.'  Only  he  hiccuped  so  much  it  was  hard 
to  make  sure  what  he  was  saying. 

"By  now  Richard  was  getting  red  around  his  jawbones, 
and  I  knew  what  that  meant.  But  he  was  trying  to  get 
away  peacably,  just  the  same,  and  we  would  have  slipped 
of!  all  right,  only  for  that  dumb  Frederick.  Didn't  he  give 
his  team  a  slash,  and  then  jumped  sidewise,  and  shoved 
us  right  off  the  edge  of  the  high  bank  down  into  the  gully! 

"It  was  the  favor  of  Providence  that  we  did  not  upset. 
Instead,  we  went  pitching  and  sliding  down  the  hill  till 
we  stuck,  rig  and  all,  in  the  hazel  brush  at  the  bottom.  Of 
course  our  horses  tried  to  bolt,  but  Richard  snatched  me  out 
and  then  quieted  them  down. 

"If  the  Owens  had  had  any  sense,  they  would  have  lit 
out  for  home  after  playing  such  a  hateful  trick.  But  in- 
stead, they  jumped  out  and  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  gully 
and  screeched  down  and  made  rude  sport  of  Richard  and 


THE    FATHER  291 

told  him  he  had  better  drive  oxen,  not  horses,  after  this. 
Then  Richard  got  perfectly  scarlet,  and  he  said,  'Get  into 
our  rig,  Mercy,  and  take  the  reins  and  I  will  lead  the 
horses  back  to  the  road/  which  he  did.  Then  he  took  our 
hitching  strap,  and  went  to  the  Owens. 

"They  were  sitting  there  on  the  bank  laughing  fit  to  kill, 
and  Richard  did  not  say  one  word.  He  grabbed  them  both 
and  knocked  their  heads  together  and  then  jammed  their 
heads  under  his  left  arm,  and  tipped  them  over  his  knee, 
both  at  once,  and  sailed  in  with  the  strap.  I  was  frightened 
'most  to  death,  for  they  were  so  surprised  and  furious, 
and  they  kept  kicking  and  biting  and  swearing.  But  they 
could  not  get  any  grip  on  Richard  anywhere,  for  they  were 
too  drunk,  and  the  more  they  flapped  and  lunged  at  him 
the  better  licks  Richard  got  in. 

"Finally  Simeon  began  to  holler  'Enough'  and  then  Rich- 
ard tipped  them  back  on  their  feet  and  slapped  their  faces 
for  them  and  said,  'The  next  time,  gentlemen,  that  you 
honor  us  by  your  interference,  you  will  get  a  real  thrash- 
ing, not  an  imitation.'  Then  he  hoisted  them  back  into  their 
chaise,  and  slapped  their  faces  again  for  luck,  so  loud  you 
heard  the  crack,  and  gave  their  team  a  cut  and  away  they 
went,  kiting.  Then  he  came  back  to  me,  and  told  me  I 
was  a  lovely  silly  to  look  so  pale,  and  he  was  so  pleased  I 
guess  he  forgot  he  was  just  as  good  as  engaged  to  me,  and 
he  whistled  all  the  way  home. 

"I  feel  very  proud  of  Richard,  not  just  because  he  whaled 
both  the  Owens  but  because  he  is  proving  such  a  successful 
business  man.  He  has  a  job  all  the  time  now,  surveying. 
Then  he  drives  for  the  Underground,  nights,  whenever  they 
want  him,  and  that  is  'most  all  the  time,  for  they  are  hurry- 
ing runaways  north,  before  the  cold  weather  sets  in.  If  he 
drives  all  night,  they  pay  him  a  dollar  for  the  trip,  and  give 


292  THE    FATHER 

him  two  bits  besides,  to  buy  his  breakfast.  Times  when  he 
has  to  drive  all  night  and  all  the  next  day,  stopping  only  for 
fresh  horses,  they  sometimes  give  him  as  much  as  two-fifty. 
That  is  wonderful  pay.  Of  course  it  is  risky,  for  every  once 
in  a  while  he  is  chased  and  they  fire  on  him,  but  usually 
he  manages  to  dodge.  I  told  him  I  would  not  stay  engaged 
to  him  however  unless  he  promised  to  carry  plenty  of  cart- 
ridges and  some  dry  socks. 

"Mr.  Lincoln  gave  him  a  letter  to  some  friends  and 
asked  them  to  give  him  that  surveying  position,  that  is  the 
way  he  got  it.  He  feels  very  much  obliged  for  the  letter,  and 
so  do  L  But  Mr.  Lincoln  says  that  driving  nights  for  the 
Underground  and  carrying  chain  all  day  is  what  he  would 
call  a  land-office  job. 

"Richard  and  Father  are  very  different.  Father  wants  to 
free  the  slaves,  and  he  worries  about  them  all  the  time. 
Richard  wishes  to  free  the  slaves,  too,  but  he  wants  some 
excitement  while  he  is  doing  it.  And  he  does  not  worry  over 
them.  Not  Richard. 

"I  am  almost  thankful  he  had  to  go  right  away.  If  I 
know  the  Owens,  they  will  go  and  get  sober  just  for  spite, 
on  purpose  to  take  revenge.  I  could  hardly  let  him  go, 
though,  and  first  he  made  fun  of  me  and  then  he  told  me 
that  if  the  little  boys  were  not  around  he  would  tell  me 
what  I  really  mean  to  him.  But  of  course  the  little  boys 
were  around  every  minute.  So  was  the  Captain.  And  Twon- 
net.  And  Aunty.  So  Richard  did  not  tell  me  then.  I  do  hope 
he  does  not  forget  to  write  it. 

"If  I  cannot  get  things  straightened  out  with  Lemuel  I 
believe  I  shall  die.  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  never  supposed  I 
would  live  to  do  anything  so  shameful  as  to  have  an  under- 
standing with  one  man,  right  when  I  am  engaged  forever  to 
another.  I  keep  putting  the  ruby  ring  on  and  then  taking  it 
off  and  putting  on  the  carnelian  one.  I  used  to  think  the 


THE    FATHER  293 

carnelian  was  perfectly  elegant,  but  now  I  wish  Lemuel 
had  kept  it  himself  and  given  it  to  the  first  Academy  girl 
who  chased  him  up  a  tree. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  do  is  to  write  Lemuel  and  tell 
him  that  if  it  is  all  the  same  to  him  I  wish  to  release  him 
from  his  promise.  I  shall  send  back  his  ring,  too.  Though 
I  certainly  hesitate  to  do  so  until  I  have  a  reply  from 
Lemuel  to  my  letter.  I  do  not  wish  to  shock  him  too  se- 
verely. Poor  boy,  I  know  this  will  hurt  him  terribly.  But 
it  is  dishonest  to  keep  him  longer  in  Suspense." 

Early  the  next  day,  Mercy  sat  down  to  her  Herculean 
task.  She  wasted  sheets  on  sheets  of  her  best  note-paper,  she 
chewed  her  own  pen  to  pulp,  then  began  on  Father's  with 
disastrous  results.  But  at  last  the  fatal  letter  was  written. 
She  surveyed  it  with  a  certain  justifiable  pride.  Surely  its 
tactful  phrases  would  all  but  atone  for  the  grief  it  must 
inflict. 

She  carried  it  to  the  Corners  postoffke  at  once.  She 
had  just  reached  home  when  the  little  boys  pelted  in. 
Adoniram  was  shining. 

"I'm  promoted,"  he  announced  loftily.  "And  I  got  to 
have  new  schoolbooks.  I  want  fifty  cents  to  buy  me  a  Col- 
burn's  Mental." 

"Why,  Donny,  that's  fine.  But  you  can  have  my  old 
Colburn's  Mental.  It's  upstairs  in  Aunty's  little  trunk.  I've 
never  touched  it  since  I  left  Antioch." 

"Fine!"  Donny  pranced  as  she  lifted  it  from  the  little 
trunk.  "And  I'll  use  these  papers  for  bookmarks.  This 
letter  anyhow." 

"What  letter?" 

"Why,  this  big  fat  one.  How  funny!  You've  never 
opened  it." 


294  THE    FATHER 

Mercy  caught  the  letter  from  his  hand.  A  pale  blue 
envelope,  still  faintly  odorous  of  bergamot. 

"My  gracious  sakes  alive!"  She  tore  it  open  with  the 
speed  of  light. 

"Green  River,  Massachusetts. 
March  tenth. 
"Respected  Friend: 

"Dear  Mercy:  I  write  this  with  some  Apprehension,  as 
I  do  not  just  know  how  you  are  going  to  take  what  I  will 
say.  You  must  be  aware  that  I  think  of  you  with  the  highest 
Regard.  I  have  considered  you  as  my  affianced  Wife,  and 
you  will  agree  that  I  have  thus  acted  in  bestowing  upon 
you  my  attentions,  viz.,  letters,  gifts,  valentine,  ring,  etc., 
etc.  But  I  have  this  to  say.  As  you  will  recall,  my  father 
bought  from  your  father's  property  the  pastures  and  the 
woodlot.  These  border  right  on  the  land  bought  by  Mr. 
Jedediah  N.  Perkins,  the  Pa  of  your  friend  Lucinda  Per- 
kins. After  thinking  it  over  I  find  that  I  prefer  to  remain 
here  in  Green  River  rather  than  to  go  West,  as  was  first 
intended.  Now  I  write  to  ask,  Do  you  still  think  favorably 
of  my  suit?  If  so,  I  wish  to  tell  everybody  and  to  do  so  at 
once.  They  all  pick  on  me  because  they  say  I  was  too  slow 
and  choosy,  and  you  gave  me  the  Slip.  If  I  could  once  tell 
them  you  are  engaged  to  me,  they  would  shut  their  Trap. 
But  as  it  is,  between  the  folks  at  home  nagging  and  the 
Academy  girls  always  asking  me  to  parties  and  then  saying 
right  out  that  they  know  they  are  safe  in  so  doing  because 
I  never  accept,  a  fellow  feels  like  a  fool. 

"If  you  wish  to  keep  things  as  they  stand,  then  all  right. 
But  if  you  should  feel  that  your  affections  are  growing 
cold,  then  notify  me  at  once. 

"I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Lucinda  since  your  depar- 
ture. I  consider  her  a  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned.  To 


THE    FATHER  295 

warn  to  comfort  and  command.  She  already  has  a  right 
smart  of  property,  and  since  her  pa  has  bought  your  pa's 
woods  and  pasture  it  almost  seems  like  a  leading. 
"I  remain  as  always 

"Yours  with  deepest  respect  and  with 
"Heart-whole  Devotion, 

"Lemuel  G.  Crowther. 

"P.S.  If  you  do  not  care  for  my  ring  any  longer,  do  not 
feel  that  you  have  got  to  keep  it.  It  cost  $1.50  at  the  Post- 
office  Store.  You  can  send  it  back  in  a  letter.  It  may  cost  as 
much  as  10^  to  return  it  to  me,  so  I  am  inclosing  12^  for 
postage." 

Mercy  flashed  down  the  loft  ladder,  seized  her  bonnet 
and  cape. 

"My  letter  to  Lemuel!  Oh,  oh,  the  stage  is  due  at  the 
Corners,  this  minute!  Oh,  if  I  can  just  get  there  in  time 
to  snatch  it  back!" 

It  was  two  miles  to  the  postoffice.  Long  rutted  miles,  at 
that.  Mercy  raced  down  that  road  like  a  mad  thing.  Be- 
hind her  shrieked  a  trail  of  astonished  little  brothers.  Gasp- 
ing, crimson,  she  tore  into  the  little  crossroads  store. 

"My  letter,  my  letter!  Give  it  to  me.  Quick! 

"Why,  I  put  her  into  the  mailbag,  not  ten  minutes  ago. 
And  here's  the  stage,  right  now.  Didn't  you  want  her  to 
go?" 

"Open  that  mailbag!  Hurry!" 

"Hey,  listen,  Miss  Mercy.  Ain't  I  just  locked  her  and 
stuck  some  red  gov'ment  sealing  wax  on  her?  She's  Federal 
property,  now.  I  dassent " 

Mercy's  eye  caught  the  store  carving  knife,  adapted 
genially  to  every  purpose  from  slicing  bacon  to  whittling 
plug   tobacco.   She   caught   it   up,   cut   the   mailbag   cords, 


296  THE    FATHER 

groped  frantically  in.  The  postmaster  stood  by,  uncertain 
whether  to  interfere.  But  she  had  jerked  out  her  own  letter 
and  was  re-tying  the  cords  before  he  could  put  his  protest 
into  further  words. 

The  stage  halted  with  a  flourish,  a  yell  of  command. 
"Hustle  with  that  mail!  We're  late,  now." 

Mercy  hurried.  She  seized  on  the  sealing  wax,  still  warm, 
dabbed  on  a  splash,  and  tossed  the  bag  to  the  driver.  The 
coach  pelted  away. 

Late  that  night,  she  awoke.  She  felt  as  if  the  burden 
of  Atlas  had  rolled  from  her  shoulders.  Heaven  be  thanked, 
she  had  not  played  fast  and  loose  with  Lemuel's  young 
affections.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  Lemuel  who  had 
played  fast  and  loose  with  her  own.  She  reached  over  to 
Thomas's  cot  to  make  sure  he  was  safely  tucked  in. 

"Awake,  Thomas?" 

Thomas  emitted  an  unsociable  grunt. 

"Because,  if  you  are,  I've  got  a  secret  to  tell  you.  I've 
been  jilted.  And  I'll  wager  there  never  was  a  jilted  woman 
in  all  the  world,  who  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  I  do." 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-NINE 

NOVEMBER,    December,   Mercy   carried   those   days 
like  a  brimming  cup.  Not  another  drop  of  joy  could 
you  pour  into  that  cup. 

"I  have  the  grandest  news  to  write  tonight.  Father 
brought  another  long  letter  from  Rich.  He  says  he  is  now 
getting  $14  a  week,  and  saving  $11  every  single  payday. 
If  he  can  keep  this  job  till  next  June  he  will  have  two 
hundred  dollars.  Then  we  can  get  married,  for  that  will 
pay  half  on  our  farm  and  leave  us  something  for  stock, 
tools,  etc.  All  Rich  needs,  he  says,  is  a  new  suit.  As  for  me, 
I  do  not  need  any  clothes  for  I  have  plenty  to  make  over. 
Only  I  do  want  to  have  my  best  shoes  half-soled.  And  my 
heart  is  set  on  a  wedding  bonnet,  like  Mrs.  Isaiah's.  She 
wore  it  over  here  the  other  day  to  show  it  to  us.  It  was  18 
years  old  last  May.  It  is  white  velvet  with  long  white 
plumes,  and  it  has  a  peach  velvet  follow-me-lad.  She  has 
worn  it  just  5  times  and  there  is  not  one  speck  on  it  except 
where  her  oldest  boy  chewed  the  follow-me-lad,  and  she 
tried  to  clean  it  with  lye  soap.  I  thought  it  was  dreadful 
and  Aunty  said  Nobody  but  a  Ninkum  would  ever  try 
to  clean  peach  velvet  with  lye  soap.  However  I  can  get 
married  without  a  bride's  bonnet  if  it  is  necessary. 

"Besides  Rich's  letter,  Father  brought  one  from  Lucinda. 
She  put  in  one  of  her  wedding  invitations,  for  she  and  Lem- 
uel expect  to  get  married  on  the  fifteenth.  It  is  purple 
cardboard  with  a  gilt  Cupid  holding  two  hearts  in  the 
corner,  tied  with  blue  ribbon.  It  is  perfectly  elegant.  She 


298  THE    FATHER 

also  sent  me  a  piece  of  her  wedding  dress.  It  is  white  lute- 
string, and  looks  rich  and  dignified,  but  Aunty  says  it  is  as 
sleazy  a  piece  as  she  ever  laid  eyes  on. 

"Father  came  home  late  so  shaky  and  sick  he  could  not 
eat  any  supper.  He  says  that  he  is  certain  that  President 
Pierce  will  sign  the  repeal  of  the  Missouri  Compromise. 
He  believes  that  if  he  does  it  will  mean  the  destruction  of 
the  Union. 

"Richard  says  he  is  wearing  his  winter  flannels,  because 
I  told  him  he  had  got  to,  but  I  think  he  is  telling  a  false- 
hood, because  in  the  last  letter  before  this  he  said  these  suits 
were  so  scratchy,  he  would  as  lieve  turn  into  a  porcupine 
and  be  done  with  it.  I  certainly  am  thankful  that  she  got 
Lemuel  and  not  me. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think  that  Mr.  Lincoln  is  the  kind- 
est human  being  that  ever  drew  breath,  but  I  wonder  some- 
times where  he  expects  to  finish  up,  he  is  such  a  perfectly 
terrible  liar.  Father  took  me  to  Springfield  last  week  and 
I  was  in  a  store  trading  when  along  came  Mrs.  Lincoln.  I 
said  to  her,  how  pleased  I  was  because  Mr.  Lincoln  gave 
Father  a  chance  to  buy  that  elegant  overcoat  for  'most 
nothing,  and  Mrs.  Lincoln  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  said, 
'Overcoat,  what  overcoat?'  And  I  said,  'The  one  you 
bought  for  him,'  and  Mrs.  Lincoln  said,  'Child,  are  you 
crazy?  I  never  bought  Abraham  Lincoln  a  coat  in  all  my 
days.  Why  he  could  not  squeeze  into  a  boughten  overcoat 
to  save  his  soul.'  So  I  tried  to  squirm  out  of  it,  but  I  did 
not  squirm  any  too  well  and  when  I  went  away  she  was 
still  looking  after  me  in  a  very  singular  manner.  Of  course 
I  know  now  what  he  was  up  to.  He  bought  that  overcoat  for 
Father  on  purpose,  because  the  old  one  was  just  falling  off 
him.  But  Father  never  guessed.  And  while  I  do  not  believe 
in  overlooking  such  a  whopper  I  am  going  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 


THE    FATHER  299 

Event  crowded  on  event.  One  bitter  November  night, 
Mercy  pulled  Thomas  inside  the  red  comforter  with  her 
to  serve  as  a  footstove  while  she  should  chronicle  the  latest 
absorbing  crisis. 

"Out  here,  things  never  do  quit  happening.  To-day,  right 
in  the  midst  of  the  biggest  snowstorm  of  the  year,  we  had 
company  come.  The  most  genteel  company  that  ever  stepped 
inside  our  door.  Miss  Evelina  Amberley! 

"We  never  dreamed  she  was  coming.  First  thing  we 
knew,  the  stage  came  up  our  lane  and  the  driver  swung 
down  and  made  the  grandest  flourishes,  and  then  he  lifted 
down  two  trunks  and  about  eight  band-boxes,  and  then 
handed  out  a  lady.  She  was  all  in  black  velvet,  a  long 
sweeping  pelisse  and  a  wide  black  hat,  all  plumes,  and 
then  a  great  soft  ermine  coat. 

"But  the  minute  we  saw  her  face,  we  all  forgot  how 
beautiful  and  stately  she  was,  and  we  just  fell  on  her  and 
ate  her  up.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind,  not  one  bit.  She 
hugged  and  kissed  us  all  as  if  she  never  would  stop. 

"We  were  all  so  glad  to  have  her.  All  but  Father.  He 
was  glad  to  see  her  of  course,  but  he  was  sort  of  horrified, 
too.  He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  he  said,  'My  child, 
what  of  your  own  father?'  And  she  shrugged  a  little  and 
said,  'By  this  time  he  understands.'  And  she  looked  up  into 
Father's  face,  and  said,  'You  won't  send  me  back?  You  will 
let  me  stay?'  And  Father  said,  'This  is  your  home,  until 
you  choose  another,'  and  she  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  did  not  say  another  word. 

"There  is  something  very  peculiar  about  the  whole 
thing,  I  can  see  that.  I  know  she  has  told  Aunty  something, 
for  Aunty  pets  her  all  the  time,  and  calls  her  My  Lamb, 
and  goodness  knows  she  hasn't  called  any  of  us  My  Lamb 
for  years  and  years,  except  Thomas.  And  not  even  Thomas 


300  THE    FATHER 

nowadays.  Not  since  the  time  he  and  the  poor  old  captain 
spilled  Cyrus  into  the  brook  instead  of  the  water-bucket. 

"It  surely  is  grand  to  have  Miss  Evelina  here,  and  she 
is  the  happiest  thing  you  ever  laid  eyes  on.  She  wants  to  help 
every  minute.  Of  course  she  doesn't  know  how  to  do  any- 
thing, really,  for  she  has  never  so  much  as  milked  and  the 
only  things  she  knows  how  to  cook  are  pound  cake  and 
quince  tarts  and  marzipan.  But  she  tries  so  hard.  She  even 
offers  to  wash  the  dishes,  even  though  Mr.  Lincoln  won't. 

"I  don't  know  that  we  will  have  much  Christmas  this 
year,  but  I  do  know  I  shall  make  popcorn  balls  for  the 
little  boys  and  embroider  some  very  elegant  handkerchiefs 
for  Richard.  Aunty  gave  me  a  roll  of  linen  she'd  had  saved 
up  for  years,  and  I  shall  hem  it  and  then  put  R.H.  in  the 
corners  with  seed  stitches  to  touch  it  up.  I  shall  make  him 
some  popcorn  balls,  too." 

The  days  grew  short  and  dark  and  cold.  The  last  wild 
geese  practiced  their  airy  Spencerian  V's  across  the  sullen 
sky.  To  Father  this  autumn  spelled  increasing  anxiety  long 
drawn  out.  Not  one  word  had  come  from  Joel.  He  had 
vanished  utterly  from  the  earth.  Guarded  messages  came 
from  Mr.  Emerson,  telling  that  the  tiny  sums  Father 
squeezed  out  and  forwarded  to  him  were  applied  on 
Joel's  debt  to  the  bank  exactly  as  he  had  directed.  Except 
the  dollar  or  so  that  was  sent  on  to  Joel  himself.  But  for 
any  acknowledgment  that  came  those  hard-won  dollars 
might  have  been  thrown  into  the  sea. 

The  Clarion  dragged  along  as  usual.  It  earned  a  dollar 
or  so  a  week,  it  brought  in  occasional  baskets  of  vegetables 
or  loads  of  wood.  The  articles  Father  wrote  for  Mr. 
Greeley  and  for  the  Eastern  magazines  did  better.  You 
could  count  on  them  to  pay  as  much  as  eight  or  ten  dollars, 


THE    FATHER  301 

and  that  was  a  great  help.  But  daily  Father  grew  older, 
more  bitterly  quiet.  Joel,  his  brother,  his  Benjamin!  How 
did  life  fare  with  him?  Would  there  ever  be  word  of  him 
again  ? 

But  to  Mercy  everything  was  so  different!  Winter  was 
not  winter  any  more.  Its  days  sped  by  in  crystal  sunlight,  its 
nights  went  robed  in  stars.  To  Father  this  might  be  a 
desolate  lonely  country  far  on  the  edge  of  the  world.  To 
her  it  spelled  enchantment.  Here,  anything  could  happen. 
Even  in  this  bitter  chill,  her  beauty,  always  so  folded  and 
so  shy,  had  flamed  awake.  She  sped  through  the  gray  weeks 
a  creature  transformed.  Her  father  would  stare  at  her  as 
if  the  very  look  of  her  could  light  his  darkening  hours. 
The  little  boys  clung  tighter  to  their  sister.  Even  Aunty, 
that  dry  and  brittle  branch,  leaned  to  her  now  with  an  added 
gentleness.  Love  walked  with  her,  and  the  love  of  others 
went  out  to  her  and  blessed  her  unawares. 

Twonnet  was  still  a  problem,  although  she  was  learning 
to  help,  after  her  fashion.  Contrary  forever,  she  soon  took 
to  doing  the  milking,  not  only  for  themselves,  but  for  the 
feeble  old  Tuckermans,  their  neighbors,  and  for  a  won- 
der, did  it  fairly  well.  Sometimes,  too,  she  went  to  work 
in  village  households  when  extra  help  was  needed.  But  for 
the  most  part  she  played  with  the  little  boys  or  sat  in  her 
tepee  day  on  day.  Yes,  Twonnet  was  still  a  problem.  But 
as  Father  had  said  of  her,  of  the  Captain,  of  Jo  Vanny, 
"If  we  don't  take  care  of  them,  who  under  the  sun  ever 
will?  And  of  course  we  can't  turn  them  away." 

In  the  winter  the  Captain  slipped  away.  He  sat  by  the 
hearth  as  usual  that  day,  always  so  tranquil,  always  drowsily 
content.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Seth  tore  in  waving  his  re- 
port card.  For  once  in  its  harried  existence  that  card  was 
adorned  with  amazingly  high  marks.  Seth,  jubilant,  pounced 


302  THE    FATHER 

on  the  old  man,  waving  the  card  like  a  banner  of  victory. 

"Looky  my  report,  everybody!  Look,  Aunty!  Say,  why 
doesn't  the  Captain  wake  up  and  see  it  too?" 

Aunty  laid  her  fingers  on  the  shriveled  old  wrist.  Then 
she  spoke,  very  gentle. 

"Never  mind  waking  him,  Seth.  Well  .  .  .  I'm  thank- 
ful we  kept  him  warm  and  comfortable,  long's  we  could." 

The  long  suspense  for  Joel  had  told  heavily  on  Father. 
But  hardly  less  than  his  fear  for  Joel  was  his  black 
prescience  for  his  nation.  The  shadow  of  that  vast  ap- 
proaching conflict  lay  always  upon  him  the  while  his  own 
helplessness  rasped  him,  shamed  him.  He  had  dared  believe 
that  he  could  do  effective  work  against  slavery,  that  he  could 
build  of  his  own  life  a  center  of  service  for  liberty.  Poor 
fool!  Not  one  man  had  listened  to  him.  Not  one  man  had 
pledged  himself  to  stand  by.  Even  Mr.  Lincoln,  whose  de- 
voted friendship  meant  half  of  life  to  him,  refused  to 
agree,  refused  to  comprehend. 

"Maybe  Mr.  Lincoln  is  too  old,  too  tired,"  he  thought 
bitterly.  "Well,  I'm  too  old,  too  tired  myself  to  struggle 
any  longer." 

But  he  struggled  on.  Resolve  to  give  up?  He  might  as 
well  resolve  to  give  up  breathing. 

Into  his  arguments  nowadays  there  crept  a  certain  as- 
perity. Up  to  this  time  he  had  thought  himself  a  model  of 
forbearance.  But  now  his  sensitiveness,  the  vehemence  of 
his  beliefs,  his  inborn  arrogance,  the  arrogance  made  up 
of  pride  of  birth  and  pride  of  principle,  all  worked  against 
him.  Mr.  Lincoln  knew  this  and  gauged  it  wisely;  still 
more  wisely,  he  tried  always  to  temper  the  wind  of  Mr. 
Stafford's  discourse  to  the  outraged  flock  of  subscribers 
who  wanted  less  sass,  by  gorry,  less  interference  with  their 
own  opinions,  and  more  willingness  to  grant  free  speech 
and  thought,  all  the  gol-durned  Abolitionists  in  creation  to 


THE    FATHER  303 

the  contrary  notwithstanding.  Profoundly  kind,  he  had 
tried  from  the  first  to  make  the  Clarion  office  a  common 
meeting  place  for  the  town;  to  bring  the  citizens  together 
in  a  spirit  of  friendly  discussion,  not  of  vindictive  wran- 
gling. But  now  it  seemed  as  if  all  his  efforts  were  worse 
than  useless. 

"Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  were  getting  more  fussy  and 
snippy  and  snarly  than  the  little  boys  ever  were.  Not  even 
when  they  had  the  mumps,"  wrote  Mercy  in  her  diary. 
"One  comfort.  No  matter  how  hard  they  quarrel  they 
manage  to  make  it  up  afterwards.  But  no  telling  how  long 
they  will  make  up.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  here  to  supper,  and 
we  had  apple  dumplings  with  hard  sauce,  and  right  in  the 
middle  of  his  dessert  Father  flared  up  and  said,  'Why 
are  you  not  going  to  the  Abolition  Convention?  Do  you 
realize  that  you  are  shirking  your  sacred  duty?'  And  Mr. 
Lincoln  stopped  with  his  mouth  full  and  said,  'Stafford, 
I  love  you  like  a  brother,  but  if  you  halt  me  in  the  midst 
of  this  dumpling  all  will  be  at  an  end  between  us.' 

"Father  was  cross  and  tired,  I  guess,  and  for  once  in 
his  life  he  could  not  take  a  joke.  He  put  down  his  spoon,  and 
his  stock  rared  clear  past  his  ear,  and  he  said,  'Is  this  an  hour 
for  jesting  when  your  nation's  honor  is  at  stake  ? '  And  Mr. 
Lincoln  reached  for  the  hard  sauce  and  said,  'Even  a  con- 
demned criminal  is  permitted  to  finish  his  breakfast  before 
he  mounts  the  scaffold.' 

"Then  Seth  began  to  laugh.  Poor  Seth,  he  always  man- 
ages to  laugh  in  the  wrong  place.  Father  said,  'You  may 
leave  the  table,'  and  Seth  went,  though  he  was  only  half- 
way through  his  dumpling,  but  I  hid  it  for  him  afterwards, 
so  the  other  two  would  not  get  it. 

"Mr.  Lincoln  tried  to  mollify  Father,  and  said,  'A  man 
in  my  position  has  to  go  slow,  Stafford.  You  know  that  I 


304  THE    FATHER 

believe  slavery  is  an  evil.  But  while  the  law  stands  we  must 
obey  that  law.  We  will  gain  nothing  by  repudiating  our 
deepest  obligation.  Further,  I  am  not  yet  convinced  that 
abolition  measures  are  the  best  road  out  of  slavery.'  And 
Father  said,  Tor  that  matter,  are  you  possessed  of  any 
convictions  whatever?  Do  you  desire  to  lift  your  country 
out  of  this  pit  of  shame?  Or  are  you  governed  by  a  base 
expediency?  It  would  look  to  me,  Mr.  Lincoln,  that  you 
would  hold  with  the  hare  yet  run  with  the  hounds.' 

"That  was  too  bad  of  Father,  for  I  know  it  cut  Mr. 
Lincoln  to  the  quick.  He  jumped  up  and  pushed  back  his 
dumpling,  and  first  he  tried  to  joke  it  off,  and  said,  'Looky 
here,  Stafford,  leave  enough  hide  on  me  to  remember  me 
by.  Isn't  a  man's  soul  his  own?'  And  Father  said,  'Not  when 
his  nation  demands  that  soul  and  he  withholds  it.' 

"Then  they  surely  did  have  it  hot  and  heavy.  Finally 
they  were  both  so  fighting  mad  they  couldn't  speak,  and 
Mr.  Lincoln  marched  out  of  the  house  and  banged  the  door 
and  Father  said,  'Just  what  I  might  have  expected.  Well, 
here  is  an  end  to  that  false  friendship.' 

"But  yesterday  Mr.  Lincoln  came  sneaking  in  when  he 
knew  Father  had  gone  to  town.  And  he  pitched  in  and 
sawed  about  a  million  sticks  of  wood.  But  Father  came 
home  earlier  than  usual  and  caught  him  stacking  the  wood 
in  the  shed.  They  stood  there  and  looked  at  each  other  and 
both  looked  sort  of  sheepish  and  finally  Father  said,  'If  you 
will  come  in  and  eat  supper  with  us,  Mr.  Lincoln,  I  promise 
that  I  will  not  say  one  word  that  begins  with  S.'  And  Mr. 
Lincoln  said,  T  will  not  only  eat  supper  with  you,  you  sanc- 
timonious blue-nosed  nigger-stealer,  but  I  will  play  chess 
with  you  afterwards  and  I  will  whale  the  everlasting  day- 
lights out  of  you.  Darned  if  I  won't.  (Only  he  did  not  say 
Darn.  But  it  was  Providential  Aunty  was  in  the  kitchen, 
and  did  not  hear  just  what  he  did  say.)  So  he  stayed  the 


THE    FATHER  305 

night  and  they  had  a  grand  time,  and  Mr.  Lincoln  was  so 
happy  he  sang  every  word  of  Oh,  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of 
Mortal  be  Proud,  twice  over. 

"Father  says  that  Congress  is  deciding  whether  they 
will  make  Kansas  free  territory.  They  are  arguing  about  it 
all  the  time.  Adoniram  asked  him  did  Congressmen  get 
any  pay,  and  Father  said,  'Yes,  they  are  paid  by  the  Gov- 
ernment every  day  no  matter  whether  they  succeed  in  set- 
tling this  question  righteously  or  not.'  I  think  it  is  sinful 
for  the  Government  to  throw  away  money  like  that.  Be- 
sides if  Kansas  had  one  mite  of  sprawl  she  would  make 
up  her  own  mind  whether  to  be  slave  or  free,  no  matter 
what  other  folks  said." 

Late  one  raw  February  day  Mercy  sat  in  her  loft  trying 
to  write.  The  three  small  boys  tumbled  over  her  like  so 
many  puppies.  Overgrown  puppies  at  that.  She  gazed  on 
them  with  a  fond  dismay.  What  could  possess  little  boys  to 
grow  up  so  amazingly  fast?  They  not  only  shot  up,  they 
shot  down,  like  so  many  onion  sprouts.  Their  pantaloons 
leaped  above  small  bony  shins,  their  wrists  distanced  their 
roundabout  sleeves  by  half  a  length,  their  jackets  cracked 
at  the  seams  and  squeejawed  in  the  back.  Thomas  was  bid- 
ding farewell  to  his  baby  teeth,  leaving  a  mournful  pink 
expanse.  Seth  had  split  out  of  his  spandy  new  suit  like  an 
active  young  tadpole.  Adoniram  had  grown  so  tall  that  you 
could  get  only  a  small  portion  of  him  on  your  lap  at  a 
time,  even  when  he  had  a  lonesome  streak.  But  happily, 
lonesome  streaks  were  few  and  far  between. 

"Anyway,  they  all  suit  me.  And  I  suppose  the  quicker 
they  grow  up,  the  better,"  she  reflected.  "Besides  that,  I'm 
too  thankful  that  they  are  all  taking  after  Father,  every 
day.  For  I  don't  want  them  to  take  after  Uncle  Joel.  I 
love  Uncle  Joel,  I'll  love  him  always.  But " 


306  THE    FATHER 

Mercy  was  growing  up,  too.  Growing  up  to  understand 
certain  matters  that  had  been  mysterious  before. 
A  few  days  later  she  wrote: 

"You  never  could  guess  what  happened  today.  Uncle 
Joel  came  back!  Just  for  a  few  hours.  But  my,  how  thank- 
ful we  all  were  to  see  him  alive  again!  'Specially  Father. 
I  never  knew  till  now  just  what  has  worried  Father  so 
much.  But  I  do  know  now.  It's  because  Uncle  Joel  has 
never  grown  up.  But  maybe  he  will  now.  Now  that  Miss 
Evelina  has  said  what  she  did.  No  telling  .   .   . 

"He  came  just  as  he  always  does.  He  did  not  send  one 
word  ahead.  Only  it  was  all  different.  For  one  thing  he 
didn't  come  prancing  up  on  horseback  the  way  he  always 
used  to.  He  was  on  foot  and  the  roads  were  all  glare  ice, 
so  he  had  tied  some  old  bits  of  carpet  over  his  shoes  to  keep 
him  from  falling.  His  shoes  really  didn't  amount  to  much 
for  they  were  all  split  over  the  instep,  and  the  soles  torn 
half  off  besides.  And  he  looked  terribly  thin  and  sort  of 
out  of  breath.  But  he  was  as  swinging  and  gay  as  ever.  He 
grabbed  us  all  up  and  kissed  us.  He  didn't  jerk  a  lot  of  pres- 
ents out  of  his  overcoat  pockets  like  he  always  used  to. 
He  didn't  have  any  pockets  to  jerk  from.  He  didn't  have 
any  overcoat. 

"Father  was  in  his  room,  writing,  when  the  boys  came  in, 
whooping  that  Uncle  Joel  had  come.  Father  came  out  and 
stood  and  looked  at  him,  just  a  minute.  Then  he  put  his  arm 
around  Joel,  as  if  he  wasn't  any  bigger  than  little  Thomas, 
and  pulled  him  away,  into  his  own  room. 

"They  didn't  come  out  for  a  good  while.  When  they 
did  come  he  had  on  Father's  good  heavy  suit,  and  he'd  had 
a  scrub  and  a  shave  and  he  was  all  smartened  up.  But  you 
could  see  how  thin  he  was  and  how  tired.  I  never  did  see 
anybody   so   tired.    Mrs.    Isaiah   had   sent   us   some   prairie 


THE    FATHER  307 

chickens,  and  I  had  made  a  pie,  and  Uncle  Joel  used  to 
love  chicken  pie,  but  this  time  he  wouldn't  eat  for  a  long 
while.  Finally  he  pitched  in  and  ate  as  if  he  was  half 
starved.  He  didn't  talk  at  all,  though.  And  Father  never 
took  his  eyes  off  him. 

"Then  they  went  back  to  the  study  and  talked  a  long 
time.  Finally  they  came  out  and  Uncle  Joel  said  he  must 
be  going,  but  Father  said,  'Joel  boy!  Wait!  I  hadn't 
realized,  you  have  no  overcoat.' 

"Uncle  Joel  kind  of  laughed,  and  said,  'Oh,  I  manage 
all  right,  without.'  But  Father  went  straight  back  to  his 
room  and  came  out  with  his  own  grand  new  one. 

"Uncle  Joel  looked  at  it.  He  got  awfully  red,  and  he 
sort  of  trembled  all  over.  But  Father  said,  'Come  now, 
Joel,  boy,  you  need  it  ten  times  more  than  I  do.'  So  Joel 
took  it  and  put  it  on. 

"But  right  then  the  door  opened  and  in  came  Miss 
Evelina.  (She  had  been  to  Springfield  to  visit  Mrs.  Lincoln 
for  a  week.)  She  stood  there  all  shining  and  lovely,  and 
for  a  while  those  two  just  stood  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Then  Uncle  Joel  spoke. 

"  'I  didn't  know  that  you  were  here,  Evelina.  For  that 
matter,  it  doesn't  mean  much,  now  that  I  do  know.  For  I 
can't  speak  one  word  to  you.  Not  yet.' 

"Miss  Evelina  looked  at  him  a  long  while.  Then  she  said 
a  queer  thing. 

"  'Are  you  ever  coming  back,  Joel?' 

"  'I'm  coming  back  if  I — if  I  ever  dare  to.' 

"  'Then,'  said  Miss  Evelina,  very  cool  and  clear,  'in  that 
case,  I'll  wait.' 

"Uncle  Joel  didn't  seem  to  understand  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  sort  of  straightened  up  all  over.  He  looked  down  at 
the  overcoat.  He  turned  perfectly  scarlet.  He  took  it  off  and 
laid  it  on  Father's  arm. 


308  THE    FATHER 

"  'Much  obliged,  Jack,'  he  said,  'but  I  reckon  I  won't 
need  it,  after  all.' 

"He  gave  Father  a  handshake,  and  went  down  the  lane. 
Halfway  down,  he  turned  and  looked  back.  But  he  didn't 
look  back  at  Father,  nor  us  children.  He  looked  right  at 
Miss  Evelina,  so  slim  and  lovely  and  still. 

"  'You  won't  have  to  wait  very  long,'  he  said.  Then 
he  went  away  over  that  glare  ice  with  the  old  pieces  of  car- 
pet tied  over  his  shoes.  But  he  went  like  lightning  just  the 


CHAPTER    THIRTY 

LATE  one  blowy  cloudy  spring  day  Mr.  Lincoln  rode  up 
'  the  lane.  Only  two  nights  ago  he  had  stopped  in  for 
supper  and  a  long  contented  visit.  To-day  he  was  ten  years 
older.  His  dry  wrinkled  face  had  fallen  into  leathery  fur- 
rows. His  cavernous  eyes  were  pits  of  dark. 

He  slumped  down  into  a  chair  and  turned  his  gray  be- 
wildered face  to  Father.  Father,  drawn  and  haggard,  looked 
back  at  him. 

"You've  heard  the  news,  Stafford?" 

"This  morning.  At  the  postoffice.  I've  looked  for  this 
all  along.  Yet  I  didn't  really  believe  it.  I  can't  believe  it 
now." 

"Probably  it  won't  go  through,  after  all.  This  is  merely 
their  first  gain.  Plenty  of  time  to  defeat  them." 

"Defeat  them?  How  can  we?  They  have  repealed  the 
Missouri  Compromise.  The  covenant  of  our  Constitution  is 
broken  within  our  hands." 

"It  shall  not  be  broken,  Stafford.  There  are  enough  of 
us,  the  anti-slavery  men,  to  force  a  reaction.  Right  here  and 
now." 

"You  can't  believe  what  you  are  saying.  For  if  the 
nation's  faith  in  our  Union  is  so  strong,  then  how  has  this 
infamous  action  won  its  ends?" 

Mr.  Lincoln  had  been  talking  against  himself,  that  was 
certain.  Now  he  threw  off  that  mask  of  senseless  hope. 

"God  help  this  nation,  Stafford.  This  is  the  beginning  of 
universal  freedom.  Or  else — it  is  the  beginning  of  the  end." 

"They  sat  there  a  long  time  and  didn't  say  one  word," 
wrote  Mercy.  "Exactly  like  two  poor  miserable  little  boys, 


310  THE    FATHER 

who  had  been  whipped  and  scolded  besides.  Father  wouldn't 
say  anything.  And  for  once  in  his  life,  I  guess  Mr.  Lincoln 
couldn't  find  anything  to  say.  At  last  he  said,  'Well,  Staf- 
ford, I  know  now  how  you  have  felt  these  years  past.  I 
never  did  understand  before.'  But  Father  didn't  seem  to 
hear  him.  Goodness  knows,  I  wish  they  didn't  make  them- 
selves so  unhappy  about  something  they  can't  help.  But 
Aunty  says  that's  menfolks  for  you.  Every  time." 

For  days  after  the  certainty  that  the  Missouri  Com- 
promise had  been  repealed,  John  Stafford  went  about, 
stunned,  silent.  All  these  years  he  had  longed  so  terribly  to 
help,  to  share.  He  had  poured  out  his  strength,  he  had  given 
the  best  of  his  life.  And  he  had  failed.  All  his  pleadings 
had  fallen  on  deaf  ears.  Not  one  man  had  listened.  Not  one 
hand  had  stretched  out  to  grasp  the  torch  from  his  eager 
hand. 

Emerson  had  been  right,  of  course.  "You  won't  even 
have  the  satisfaction  of  being  a  martyr.  You'll  be  a  dreary 
nuisance.   .   .  ." 

But  a  man  must  use  what  talents  are  vouchsafed  him. 
He  was  as  his  life  and  the  lives  of  his  forebears  had  made 
him.  Perhaps  he  would  have  accomplished  more  if  he  had 
waved  and  shouted  and  made  a  noisy  personal  appeal.  But 
he  could  not.  He  hadn't  known  how.  He  had  no  traffic  with 
the  virulent,  not  with  the  cheaply  sentimental.  He  could 
speak  only  truth,  no  matter  how  cold,  how  dull.  His  pen 
would  have  turned  in  his  hand  had  he  forced  it  to  blacken 
the  South  or  to  deny  the  faults  of  the  North.  Well,  he 
was  a  failure,  that  was  all.  He  was  a  barren  old  fig-tree, 
cursed  with  the  pulsing  sap  of  eager  hope,  never  to  be 
blessed  with  fruit. 

What  was  it  he  had  told  Emerson?  "If  I  can  only  find 
one  man "  What  a   fool,   what  a  presumptuous   fool 


THE    FATHER  311 

he  had  been  to  dream  that  he  might  find  even  one.  Every 
great  army  must  have  its  stragglers.  He  himself  was  just  a 
straggler,  a  camp-follower,  when  he  had  fancied  himself  a 
leader,  a  counselor! 

Well,  there  had  been  other  fools  before  his  time.  There 
would  be  more  fools  to  follow.  "Who  hath  believed  our 
report?"  The  ancient  bitter  cry  rang  in  his  ears.  Why  ask? 
There  could  be  no  reply.  He  had  believed,  he  had  followed 
his  mighty  hope,  and  it  had  disowned  his  worship.  His 
faith  itself  had  fallen  to  ashes  before  his  eyes. 

So  he  stumbled  on  through  darkening  hours.  Then, 
Strangely,  there  was  granted  to  him  a  gleam  of  promise. 

He  had  ridden  to  Springfield  where  he  spent  some  days. 
The  evening  of  his  return  Mr.  Lincoln  had  suggested  that 
he  would  ride  home  with  Father  and  stay  the  night,  as  he 
did  so  often  in  order  to  make  an  early  start  to  court  the  next 
morning. 

Now  back  of  the  Stafford  land  lay  a  strip  of  woods  which 
abutted  on  the  highroad  between  Springfield  and  St.  Louis. 
This  highroad  was  constantly  used  by  emigrant  trains  on 
their  way  west.  It  was  a  winding  turnpike,  which  finally 
merged  with  the  road  which  lay  in  front  of  the  Stafford 
home.  That  merging  point  lay  a  full  two  miles  below  the 
place.  But  now  a  new  cross-road  had  been  cut  which  united 
the  two  at  a  point  just  below  Father's  land.  This  new  road 
would  cut  off  miles  of  driving  for  the  west-bound  travelers. 
It  would  bring  the  stream  of  emigrants  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  Stafford  house  itself. 

On  their  way  back  the  two  men  took  this  short  cut.  It  had 
been  open  only  a  few  days.  Neither  man  had  ridden  on  it 
until  to-day. 

They  had  hardly  entered  it  until  they  had  to  rein  in 
their  horses  to  make  way  for  an  oncoming  train. 

At  first  glance   this  caravan  was  the  prototype  of  the 


312  THE    FATHER 

thousands  of  caravans  that  so  constantly  crossed  the  state. 
But  as  the  two  sat  waiting  on  their  restive  horses,  a  curious 
question  came  to  them.  How  long  could  this  string  be?  How 
long  had  they  waited?    Five  minutes — ten  minutes — half 

an  hour 

"Isn't  there  any  end  to  this  procession?"  Mr.  Lincoln 
bent  forward,  peering.  As  far  as  eye  could  see  they  were 
coming  still.  Huge  white-topped  wagons,  patient  teams,  led 
horses,  provision  trains.  Gigantic  flat  trucks  drawn  by  eight 
yoke  of  oxen  dragged  the  wheels  and  boilers  for  a  mill. 
Another  truck  carried  a  forge  with  the  blacksmith  hard 
at  work,  welding  a  white-hot  chain.  And  every  wagon  bore 
not  only  its  own  emblem,  a  maple  branch,  a  coonskin,  a 
horseshoe;  but  on  every  white  canvas  top  was  painted  its 
insolent  gay  goal:  "On  to  Kansas!"  "Kansas  and  Free- 
dom!" "Beecher  Bibles  for  Border  Bullies!" 

"This  isn't  just  an  emigrant  train,"  finally  Mr.  Lin- 
coln spoke.  "This  is  a  crusade,  Stafford,  don't  you  see?  A 
pilgrimage.  The  pilgrimage  of  a  nation." 

Mr.  Stafford  did  not  answer.  He  could  not  have  an- 
swered had  he  tried.  For  one  moment,  the  old  swift  exulta- 
tion awoke  in  him.  If  only  for  this  breath  his  shamed 
dream  was  his  again. 

"If  I  could  only  go  myself!"  But  old,  tired,  all  but  pen- 
niless, the  Promised  Land  was  not  for  him.  "Oh,  if  I  could 
help  even " 

Help!  The  pitiful  absurdity  of  that!  Not  a  dollar  had 
he  to  spare,  not  an  hour  of  time,  not  an  ounce  of  strength 
that  was  not  pledged  over  and  over  to  earning  for  the  actual 
needs  of  his  own  children! 

"But  there  must  be  something  I  can  do.  If  I  had  one 
single  advantage  that  I  could  share  with  these  people,  one 
comfort,  one  lift  that  I  could  give  them  on  their  way! 


THE    FATHER  313 

But  I  have  nothing.  Nothing  but  barely  enough  food  for  my 
own.  Actually,  the  only  thing  left  to  me  that  I  dare  to  share 
is  my  well.  Good  drinking  water.  That's  the  only  thing 
of  which  we  have  enough  and  to  spare.   .  .   ." 

"The  little  boys  have  a  new  job,"  wrote  Mercy.  "The 
first  real  honest-to-goodness  job  they  have  ever  had,  and 
they  are  proud  enough  to  burst,  all  three  of  them.  Now  that 
the  new  road  is  cut  and  the  Free-Kansas  men  are  crossing 
through  only  a  little  way  from  our  house,  Father  has  told 
the  boys  that  they  can  take  turns  providing  fresh  water  for 
the  travelers'  casks,  and  watering  their  horses,  too.  Some- 
times as  many  as  three  great  long  caravans  come  trailing 
through  in  one  day.  You  wouldn't  believe  how  surprised  and 
grateful  the  travelers  are.  They  are  well  equipped,  most  of 
them,  with  fine  new  Conestogas,  and  good  beds  and  plenty 
of  blankets  and  cooking  things.  But  as  one  man  told  Father 
yesterday  the  finest  Conestoga  made  can't  carry  a  flowering 
well  with  water  as  cold  as  ice,  and  so  fresh  and  pure.  They 
drink  and  drink  and  drink.  They're  always  so  hot  and 
thirsty  their  tongues  fairly  hang  out.  Afterward  we  let  their 
horses  and  cattle  drink  too.  Its  lucky  for  us  that  our  well 
is  fed  by  a  spring  that  never  was  known  to  fail. 

"The  little  boys  pretend  they  are  on  a  ship  at  sea,  so  one 
of  them  must  perch  up  atop  of  the  gate-post  so  he  can 
watch  out  over  the  prairie.  Then  when  he  sees  a  wagon- 
train  coming  he  signals  the  others,  and  they  pump  the  drink- 
ing casks  full  and  ready.  They  work  as  hard  as  they  ever 
did  digging  in  the  Indian  mounds,  and  they  wear  their 
clothes  out  faster  than  ever,  but  Father  doesn't  seem  to 
mind.  I  worried  at  first  to  have  Thomas  paddle  in  the 
water  so  much  for  fear  it  might  bring  on  croup  again, 
but  he  hasn't  wheezed  once.  But  we  have  to  tie  Trouble  in 


314  THE    FATHER 

the  barn  for  he  thinks  it  is  his  bounden  duty  to  thrash  all 
the  pioneers'  dogs,  and  that  keeps  him  too  busy. 

"I  wrote  Richard  about  how  we  are  sharing  our  water 
with  everybody  that  goes  by,  and  he  thinks  it  is  a  splendid 
idea.  He  says,  times  that  he  has  been  stuck  up  on  a  broil- 
ing wagon-seat,  driving  a  load  of  refugees,  he  would  have 
given  a  year  of  his  life  if  he'd  dared  stop  long  enough  for 
a  swallow  of  cold  well-water.  Mr.  Lincoln  says  he  is  proud 
of  these  pioneers,  and  thinks  we  should  feel  honored  by 
the  chance  to  give  them  this  lift.  He  gave  an  oration  about 
them  at  the  Lord's  Barn  last  Sunday.  He  said  these  folks 
are  like  the  Pilgrim  fathers  only  finer  if  anything,  be- 
cause the  Pilgrims  left  their  own  land  to  escape  persecution 
and  to  win  freedom  for  themselves.  But  that  these  Free- 
Kansas  men  did  not  have  to  run  away  from  persecution. 
Instead,  they  had  turned  their  backs  on  their  own  comfort 
and  ease  and  set  out  for  a  rough  new  country  to  save  it  for 
freedom.  He  said  we  should  always  call  them  pioneers,  not 
emigrants.  'For  the  emigrant  goes  out  into  strange  lands 
to  better  himself,'  says  Mr.  Lincoln,  cand  that  is  all  very 
well.  But  the  pioneer  leaves  safe  comfortable  lands,  and 
starts  out  to  better  the  country  to  which  he  goes.  Maybe  he 
will  improve  his  own  condition  by  so  doing,  maybe  not. 
Moreover,  the  emigrant  will  build  up  a  civilization  by  slow 
degrees.  But  the  pioneer,  at  least  such  pioneers  as  these, 
will  take  with  him  his  civilization,  the  finest  civilization 
that  this  continent  has  ever  known. 

"  'Plenty  of  people  think  that  these  Kansas  pioneers  are 
starting  out  armed  with  Beecher  Bible  *  and  a  skillet,  and 
precious  little  else.  But  I  tell  you  that  these  covered  wagons 
that  pass  us  today  are  chests  of  treasure.  Look  in  them  and 

*  The  Beecher  Bibles  were  the  Springfield  rifles  sent  out  with 
the  Free-Kansas  expeditions  which  were  equipped  by  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  and  his  congregation. 


THE    FATHER  3!5 

you  will  find  the  things  tangible:  old  royal  land  grants, 
rosewood  cradles,  books  and  manuscripts,  fine  old  silver. 
Listen  to  their  talk,  and  you  will  find  the  things  intangible: 
stately  memories,  proud  traditions.  For  these  tired  dusty  men 
who  pass  us  to-day  are  the  wheat,  the  cream,  the  marrow  of 
their  nation.  They  are  fiber  and  sinew,  flesh  and  spirit,  the 
kernel  of  America's  finest  grain.  And  this,  their  journey,  is 
not  just  a  dull  migration.  This  is  the  onslaught  of  an  al- 
mighty hope.  These  men  sow  in  splendor.  They  shall  reap 
in  freedom.' 

" — I  felt  that  it  was  a  very  genteel  discourse,  but  lots 
of  our  folks  were  quite  sniffy  about  it.  They  say  that  Mr. 
Lincoln  might  just  as  well  come  right  out  and  say  he's  an 
Abolitionist  and  be  done  with  it.  And  Mr.  Timothy  Lyman 
says  he'd  wager  they's  plenty  of  your  fine  pioneers  who 
have  lit  out  from  their  home  country,  a-purpose  to  get  out 
from  under  their  home-town  constable's  thumb. 

"Richard  writes  that  he  is  coming  some  time  this  spring 
to  stay  two  days.  We  can't  get  married  this  time,  for  he 
has  to  earn  quite  a  bit  more  before  he  can  pay  enough  on  his 
land  to  hold  it.  But  I  don't  care.  I  just  want  to  see  him  so 
dreadfully  that  I  won't  complain  if  he  can  stay  only  one 
day.  Or  one  hour.  Or  one  minute." 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-ONE 

RICHARD  had  come,  for  a  day  and  a  night.  Richard 
here,  for  the  first  time  since  last  October,  and  here  it 
was  June!  It  had  been  so  long.  Too  long.  Yet  here  he  stood, 
so  tall,  so  glorious,  so  brimming-full  of  love  and  teasing 
and  rascally  small-boy  delight!  She  had  planned  his  com- 
ing, so  many  times  over,  she  had  pictured  out  every  perfect 
moment.  But  here,  sitting  beside  him  on  Mount  Everest, 
she  could  not  speak.  She  did  not  want  to  move.  She  wanted 
only  to  sit  there  motionless  in  the  great  gold  sweep  of  sun 
and  wind  and  prairie,  and  listen  to  his  rushing  eager  voice, 
and  be  quiet.  Quiet  in  a  happiness  that  was  life  and  breath 
and  healing.  Not  a  thought  of  dread  or  worry  left  to  her. 
Not  even  a  shadow  of  fear. 

"Turn  around,  Mrs.  Lot,  so  I  can  rest  my  eyes  on  you. 
Actually,  you  haven't  aged  so  very  much.  Not  nearly  as 
much  as  I'd  expected."  He  took  up  her  slender  little  hand, 
scrutinized  it,  then  kissed  the  little  broom-and-churn  cal- 
louses on  the  rosy  palm. 

"Ridiculous-looking  hands  you've  got.  Don't  know 
whether  I  really  ought  to  marry  you.  For  I  want  a  wife 
who  will  be  some  good  for  pioneering.  The  kind  that  can 
pull  stumps  and  shoe  the  mules  and  knock  the  Indians  off 
the  front  stoop.  These  don't  look  worth  shucks.  They  look 
like  they  were  made  out  of  May-apple  blooms.  Or  else 
spring  beauties.  Although  if  a  man  wants  something  to 
look  at,  they'll  do  well  enough." 

Mercy  utilized  one  of  them  to  cuff  his  ears.  Then  she 
took  his  own  paw,  bent  the  fingers  back,  and  set  to  tapping 
his  broad  palm  with  her  fingertips. 


THE    FATHER  317 

"What's  all  that  performance?" 

"It's  a  sort  of  code  Father  taught  me."  Mercy  gazed 
up  at  him,  sedate  and  grave.  "Suppose  you're  in  church  or 
some  place  where  you  mustn't  talk  out  loud.  Well,  you 
can  spell  out  what  you  want  to  say,  or  even  tap  it  without 
speaking  a  word.  Here,  I'll  make  three  taps.  Can  you  guess 
what  that  means?" 

"Yes,"  said  Richard,  promptly.  "But  I  know  a  lot  better 
way  to  say  it.  I'll  show  you." 

He  did. 

"I'm  going  to  get  that  same  team  from  old  Currier  and 
we'll  go  for  a  drive,  Mercy." 

"Oh-h,  Rich!   But  ought  we  to  spend?" 

"Hush,  I  guess  I  can  afford  to  take  my  girl  riding  just 
once  in  six  months.  Besides,  Mr.  Lincoln  wants  me  to  do 
an  errand  for  him.  He  asked  me  to  take  some  legal  papers 
over  to  Colonel  Andrews  down  beyond  Coles  Creek." 

"Right  across  Cooper  Township?" 

"Yes." 

"That  will  be  fine,  for  I  need  some  early  apples  for 
pies,  and  we  can  stop  at  Mrs.  Isaiah's  for  them.  That's 
near  Coles  Creek.  You  see  Father  is  taking  Aunty  and 
Miss  Evelina  and  the  two  older  boys  to  Springfield.  Mr. 
Phillips  is  to  lecture  there  to-day.  He'd  take  Thomas,  too, 
only  Thomas  was  croupy  last  night  and  I'm  afraid  to  let 
him  go.  But  we  can  take  him  on  our  ride,  for  we'll  be 
home  before  dark." 

"Take  Thomas  along!   Great  Scott!" 

A  spark  of  Father's  own  devilment  awoke  in  Mercy's 
eyes. 

"Why,  Richard,  he's  been  so  good  all  week  he  deserves 
it.  If  I  wanted  to  take  all  three  little  boys,  you  might  have 
some  excuse  to  fuss." 

Thereupon  Richard  indulged  in  what  would  be  called,  if 


318  THE    FATHER 

he  were  Thomas's  age,  a  tantrum.  Mercy  adored  it,  while 
she  derided  it. 

"Anybody  would  think  Thomas  was  a  raging  hyena 
instead  of  a  good  obedient  little  boy  who  never  bothered 
anybody  in  all  his  life.  I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do.  We 
will  drive  over  to  Mrs.  Isaiah's,  leave  Thomas  there,  then 
come  back  for  him  later.  No,  I  cannot  leave  him  here,  soul 
alone.  Even  Twonnet  is  staying  at  old  Miss  Tuckerman's 
this  week." 

"Oh,  well.  If  we've  got  to " 

Then  he  looked  at  Mercy.  Looked  at  her  as  if  he  would 
grave  her  face  upon  his  sight,  as  if  he  never  asked  to 
see  anything  again  except  those  silver-gilt  braids,  that 
long  clear  serious  glance,  that  square  small  chin,  those 
lips  that  were  his  own.  Her  thoughts  were  his  thoughts, 
she  had  no  wish  that  was  not  woven  into  his,  dyed  with 
the  color  of  his  will.  She  would  have  followed  him  bare- 
foot through  the  world. 

"You!"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

They  stopped  at  Mrs.  Isaiah's  and  deposited  Thomas, 
exuding  a  veritable  odor  of  sanctity,  under  her  neighborly 
wing.  Then  the  two  drove  on.  Halfway  across  Cooper 
Township  came  Coles  Creek,  now  swollen  by  heavy  rains 
to  a  young  flood.  The  Andrews'  farm  was  only  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  farther  shore.  But  between  them 
stretched  a  tumble  of  muddy  water. 

"Will  you  look  at  that!  We  never  can  cross  with  the 
team.  We'll  bog  down,  sure  as  fate." 

"Yes,  and  these  papers  are  urgent.  I  promised  Mr. 
Lincoln  that  the  Colonel  should  have  them  to-day  sure  as 
shootin\" 

"You  take  one  horse,  and  make  him  swim  across.  I'll 
stay  here  till  you  get  back." 

"Yes,  I'd  feel  fine  leaving  you  here  alone!" 


THE    FATHER  319 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Rich.  I'll  be  perfectly  safe." 

"But  look  at  those  clouds.  Rolling  up  for  another  rain." 

"Oh,  it  won't  rain  for  an  hour  or  more.  If  it  does,  I'll 
run  for  the  haunted  cabin." 

"The  what?" 

"The  cabin  where  the  haunted  mirror  hangs.  Didn't 
I  ever  tell  you  about  it?  Right  over  yonder."  She  pointed 
out  the  sagging  gables,  the  crumbling  chimney,  clearly 
seen  past  the  abandoned  orchard.  "We've  passed  it  a  dozen 
times,  but  Father  is  so  notional,  he  never  lets  me  step 
inside." 

"Your  father  is  a  mighty  sensible  man.  Just  let  me 
catch  you  sticking  your  nose  inside  a  place  like  that." 

This  was  a  shade  too  proprietary. 

"Oh,  hurry  along,  Rich.  Can't  you  see  how  fast  that 
rain  is  coming?" 

A  bank  of  purple  darkened  the  horizon.  The  air  was 
growing  hazed  and  dim. 

"Well,  I'm  off.  Stay  here,  then.  I  won't  be  out  of  calling 
distance.  At  least,  not  more  than  ten  minutes." 

Two  minutes  more  and  he  and  his  horse  were  pound- 
ing up  the  farther  bank.  He  waved  and  shouted  back,  then 
disappeared  behind  the  trees. 

Mercy  had  miscalculated.  It  was  not  five  minutes  until 
those  purple  banks  stretched  from  horizon  to  zenith. 
There  came  a  crash  of  thunder  followed  by  swift  heavy 
drops. 

"No  matter  how  bossy  Rich  likes  to  be,  he  wouldn't  want 
me  to  stick  around  here  through  a  storm.  I'm  going  to  the 
cabin.  After  all  these  years  I  couldn't  possibly  catch  the 
fever.  And  I  do  so  want  a  peep  at  that  mirror!" 

To  enter  the  cabin  was  to  enter  a  cave  of  dust  and 
gloom.   Spiderwebs   curtained   the   narrow   window.    Small 


320  THE    FATHER 

squeaks  and  rustles  startled  her  as  she  slipped  across  the 
room.  Broken  chairs,  a  torn  rag  rug,  a  splintery  board 
table,  but  tall,  golden,  royal,  towering  in  that  grimy  murk, 
shone  the  great  gold  mirror. 

Awe  and  pity  shook  Mercy's  heart.  She  stared  into  those 
vague  depths  that  had  gathered  to  themselves  so  much  of 
loveliness,  so  much  of  reckless  joy,  such  terror.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln's words  came  echoing  back:  "The  flowing  sparkling 
ladies,  the  swaggering  dandies,  the  blustering  old  captain — 
where  had  all  their  sparkle  and  swagger  and  bluster  gone 
now?" 

Where  would  it  all  go,  anyway?  She  too  stood  here,  but 
only  for  this  moment:  her  soft  cheek,  her  strong  little 
hands,  her  blue  delaine  dress  with  its  white  starched  ruffles. 
So  would  Rich  shine  here,  for  one  instant  .  .  .  Rich's 
dear  insolent  handsome  face,  the  scar  across  his  forehead, 
the  funny  little  dent  that  cocked  one  black  eyebrow.  All 
Rich's  splendor  would  flare  one  instant,  across  that  glim- 
mering expanse,  then  vanish  as  she  too  would  vanish. 
Never  to  shine  in  this  gray  gloom  again. 

Thunder  volleyed.  The  room  grew  darker  still.  The 
rickety  door  blew  open.  Mercy  ran  to  prop  it  shut. 

"Rich  will  be  drenched.  And  he  won't  be  able  to  coax 
that  skittish  horse  across  the  creek  till  this  downpour  stops." 

She  must  have  spoken  aloud.  From  across  the  room  came 
a  quiet  chuckling  voice: 

"That  will  give  us  time  for  a  fine  long  visit.  Eh, 
Beauty?" 

With  a  grasp,  she  whirled  and  faced  the  voice. 

Frederick  Owen.  Frederick  Owen,  in  his  long  dove- 
colored  riding  coat,  and  his  violet  waistcoat,  and  the  clear 
white  diamonds  glittering  on  his  neckcloth.  Frederick 
Owen.  He  was  coming  towards  her,  laughing  softly  with 
each  slow  reeling  step.  He  bent  his  head,  looked  straight 


THE    FATHER  321 

down  into  her  eyes.  That  look  tore  through  her  like  a  huge 
unclean  hand. 

All  the  breath  went  out  of  her  body.  She  leaped  for 
the  door. 

Drunk  though  he  was,  Frederick  was  quicker.  Quick  as 
a  hawk.  He  was  down  on  her  with  one  swoop,  he  had 
pinioned  her  hands  and  thrown  her  against  the  wall,  he 
was  slamming  her  back  and  forth  against  the  door  casing, 
beating  her  head  against  it  with  every  shake.  She  tried  to 
scream,  but  the  pain  was  too  fearful.  She  fought  and 
twisted  and  kicked,  but  he  had  jammed  his  knee  against  her 
knee,  flattened  her  body  taut  against  the  wall.  She  ducked 
her  head,  set  her  teeth  into  his  hand.  He  yelled  with  fury 
and  struck  her  in  the  face  with  his  free  hand.  Holding  her 
clenched  against  the  wall,  he  stooped  and  pulled  the  little 
dirk  from  his  boot. 

"Listen,  Beauty.  You  wouldn't  let  me  carve  our  names 
on  th'  office  wall,  remember?  Well,  all  ri\  AIL  ri\  But 
I  am'  discouraged  yet.  Not  me.  I'm  goin'  carve  those 
nishels  right  here,  where  you  won*  forget.  Right  on  your 
sweet  little  neck,  so's  you  can't  never  forget " 

The  dirk  slashed  through  her  blue  delaine  shoulder, 
sheared  away  the  starched  frills.  A  stab  of  pain  followed 
the  dirk,  a  quick  gush  of  blood. 

Something  crashed  behind  them.  Frederick  gave  a  queer 
smothered  squeal.  The  dirk  clattered  on  the  floor.  He 
let  go  Mercy's  hands,  turned  to  face  that  crash. 

He  did  not  have  a  chance.  As  the  door  toppled  inward, 
Richard  had  sprung  on  him.  He  gripped  him  as  a  terrier 
grips  a  rat.  You  could  not  see  in  that  dark  room.  You 
could  not  hear,  you  could  not  feel,  even,  for  your  hands 
were  too  numb,  your  whole  body  was  struck  motionless. 
Yet  you  knew  the  thud  of  iron  flesh  on  flesh,  the  gasping 
breaths.  Then  a  silence  that  screamed  in  your  ears. 


322  THE    FATHER 

Richard  shoved  the  door  open,  propped  it  with  a  broken 
chair.  In  the  dim  light  you  saw  Richard's  torn  shirt,  his 
bleeding  face,  the  bleeding  huddle  that  lay  face  down  on 
the  stone  of  the  hearth. 

"Settled  him."  Richard  pushed  the  heap  aside  with 
his  foot.  "Now,  you " 

He  tried  to  go  on.  He  couldn't.  He  lurched  across  the 
room  and  gathered  up  Mercy  somehow,  then  stumbled 
over  to  a  bench  and  sat  down  with  her.  He  sat  there  a  good 
while  clutching  her  to  him  weakly.  Finally  he  began  to 
mumble  incoherent  words,  to  sob  over  her,  to  croon  over 
her. 

"Richard,  darling!  Don't,  don't.  I'm  not  hurt.  Only 
this  one  cut.  And  he's  spoiled  my  collar,  but  the  dress  will 
wash,  all  right.  Richard,  don't!  Stop  now!" 

He  couldn't  stop.  He  cried  the  way  Donny  used  to  cry 
when  he  was  very  little.  Thank  goodness,  Donny  didn't 
cry  like  that  any  more.  On  and  on,  hopelessly,  despairingly, 
as  if  he  was  locked  away  somewhere,  forgotten,  as  if  he% 
knew  he'd  never  be  found  again. 

Presently  Mercy  roused  herself.  She  shook  herself  free 
from  Richard's  arms.  She  pulled  him  to  his  feet.  She 
dragged  him  outside,  and  splashed  water  on  him  from  the 
hogshead  below  the  eaves.  She  kissed  him  and  scolded 
him  and  comforted  him. 

"Anybody  would  think  you  were  five  years  old,  going 
on  six.  Stop  gulping,  or  I'll  smack  you.  Keep  sopping  your 
face  with  your  wet  handkerchief  and  maybe  that  will  stop 
the  bleeding.  And  for  goodness'  sake,  find  me  a  pin.  You 
must  have  one  stuck  in  your  coat  somewhere.  You  don't 
want  me  to  ride  home  with  my  sleeve  cut  clear  off  my 
shoulder  like  this.  There,  there,  I  didn't  mean  to  start 
you  all  over  again.  Richard,  stop  it! 

At   last   Richard   stopped.    He   couldn't  stop   trembling, 


THE    FATHER  323 

though.  He  shook  like  a  leaf  when  Mercy,  scolding, 
urging,  drove  him  back  into  the  room,  and  made  him  pick 
Frederick  up  and  bring  him  outdoors. 

"Reckon  I've  killed  him.  Hope  so,  anyway." 

"That's  a  fine  way  to  talk.  Anybody  would  think  you 
were  a  bushwhacker.  Pick  him  up,  now.  Goodness,  how 
floppy  he  is.  But  maybe  he'll  brace  up  when  we  get  him 
into  the  air." 

It  took  some  time  to  rouse  Frederick.  When  he  did 
rouse,  he  could  stand,  but  could  not  walk.  He  moaned  and 
wailed  when  they  tried  to  make  him  step,  he  sniffled  like 
a  sick  puppy. 

Richard  felt  him  over,  none  too  gently. 

"Can't  find  anything  broken,  except  his  jaw.  Whew,  I 
gave  him  some  ugly  bruises.  Look  at  his  face." 

Mercy  did  not  want  to  look  at  his  face.  It  made  her 
feel  too  peculiar  inside.  It  was  not  much  of  a  face  any 
more.  It  was  black,  where  it  wasn't  purple,  and  it  was 
pulpy  all  over.  His  swollen  and  broken  jaw  made  his 
whole  head  look  knocked  sidewise,  like  a  lump  of  bluish 
dough. 

"Take  your  handkerchief,  Rich,  and  tie  up  that  poor 
jaw.  It  must  hurt  dreadfully.  Yes,  I  know  it's  one  I  made 
for  you.  What  of  it?  I'll  make  you  another.  Yes,  I'll  steady 
his  head.  But  hurry." 

They  bandaged  the  lolling  head  as  best  they  could. 

"Now  hold  his  horse,  Mercy,  while  I  hoist  him  on." 

Easier  said  than  done.  The  horse,  young  and  fractious, 
sidled  and  bucked.  Frederick  was  too  logy  to  help  him- 
self. But  at  last  they  got  him  into  the  saddle.  As  Richard 
put  the  reins  into  his  hands  he  took  a  fairly  firm  hold. 
Whining  with  the  pain  of  every  movement,  he  yet  drew 
himself  erect,  and  struck  out  clumsily  with  the  whip  that 


324  THE    FATHER 

Mercy  had  given  him.  The  horse  galloped  away  down 
the  road  towards  his  home. 

"He'll  get  home,  all  right.  Wish  I  had  finished  him, 
though.  Damn  him!" 

"Richard  Harrison,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  Harness 
quick,  now,  and  let's  go  for  Thomas.  Mrs.  Isaiah  will 
think  we've  dumped  him  on  her  hands  for  all  night." 

They  drove  away  toward  Mrs.  Isaiah's.  It  was  fortunate 
that  they  had  no  more  creeks  to  cross,  for  this  rain  had 
been  more  than  a  rain.  It  had  been  a  cloudburst. 

"Father  and  the  folks  will  have  to  stay  in  Springfield 
to-night." 

"They'll  be  lucky  if  they  don't  have  to  stay  to-morrow 
night.  This  rain  is  a  young  flood.  Hi,  there's  Thomas. 
Will  you  look  at  him !  You'll  have  to  run  him  through  the 
wringer." 

This  was  too  accurately  put.  All  traces  of  Thomas's  re- 
cent sanctity  were  washed  away.  Mrs.  Isaiah  was  an  easy- 
going guardian.  Thomas  and  the  young  Brookers  had  spent 
a  delightful  afternoon,  playing  Duck  on  a  Rock,  and  a 
trifle  like  a  cloudburst  had  not  interrupted  their  fun. 
Thomas  was  soaking  from  head  to  foot,  he  was  stuffed 
with  green  apples,  he  wheezed  like  a  cheerful  little  gram- 
pus. Mercy  saw  a  prolonged  session  with  camphor,  and 
goosegrease. 

Her  foresight  was  too  well  vindicated.  By  suppertime, 
Thomas's  cheery  air  had  given  way  to  heavy  choking 
drowsiness.  When  Richard  came  in  from  the  milking,  he 
found  Mercy  before  the  fire  rocking  the  poor  little  sinner 
in  her  arms,  while  a  loathly  mess  of  onion-and-molasses 
simmered  on  the  hob.  By  eight  o'clock  Richard  was  begging 
to  go  for  a  doctor. 

"You   can't   reach   town  to-night.   Not  in  this  storm. 


THE    FATHER  325 

Anyway,  Richard,  I'd  like  you  to  stay  with  us  till  the  folks 
get  home." 

"Think  you  could  drive  me  away?  I  stay  here  to-night 
and  to-morrow,  too,  if  you  need  me.  Whoa,  Thomas! 
Here,  let  me  carry  him  to  the  window.  Maybe  he  can 
breathe  there." 

Thomas  was  getting  very  tired  of  breathing.  He  had 
made  a  gallant  fight,  but  his  chuffy  little  neck  was  swollen 
hard,  his  voice  came  slowly  in  agonized  toiling  gasps. 
Mercy  fought  with  him,  shoulder  to  shoulder.  All  her 
skill,  all  the  life  in  her,  fought  too.  She  forgot  Richard, 
she  forgot  Frederick  Owen.  She  knew  nothing  but  that 
precious  little  body  in  her  arms,  the  small  hot  clutching 
hands,  the  tortured  wrenching  breaths.  At  ten  o'clock,  she 
and  Richard  looked  at  each  other  in  terror.  At  midnight, 
there  was  a  respite.  Thomas  breathed  easier.  From  one 
o'clock  till  four,  they  fought  death  hand  to  hand. 

At  daybreak,  the  agony  yielded.  Thomas  did  not  lift 
his  head.  He  did  not  even  open  his  eyes.  But  every  taut 
straining  muscle  let  go.  He  pitched  backward,  limp,  ashen, 
into  Mercy's  lap. 

Mercy  looked  down  incredulously  at  the  lax  little  arm- 
ful, the  dark  congested  little  face,  slowly  clearing  to  a  dim 
drowned  likeness  of  itself.  Then  she  gathered  the  child 
up,  and  went  staggering  into  Aunty's  room.  She  pitched 
down  on  the  great  pineapple  bed.  She  knew  nothing,  asked 
nothing,  but  the  chance  to  lie  where  she  had  fallen,  the 
little  boy  still  clasped  to  her  breast.  But  even  as  she  sank 
into  exhausted  sleep,  her  arms  did  not  loosen.  And  in  the 
depths  of  his  own  sleep,  Thomas  clung  feebly  round  her 
neck,  as  if  he  knew  that  only  in  his  sister's  clasp  lay 
safety. 

Richard  looked  down  at  them.  He  laid  a  blanket  over 


326  THE    FATHER 

them  and  tucked  it  in.  Then  he  looked  at  the  clock. 
Twenty  minutes  of  five. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  crouched  on  the  kitchen 
step.  He  did  not  turn  his  eyes  from  the  silent  room. 

— It  was  high  noon  when  Mercy  awoke.  Thomas  still 
slept.  Richard  was  clumping  around  the  kitchen  trying  to 
cook  breakfast.  Mercy  swallowed  a  cup  of  his  unspeak- 
able scorched  coffee  and  ate  a  slice  of  bread.  Thomas  lay 
in  a  lax  ashen  little  heap,  but  he  was  out  of  danger.  That 
she  knew.  She  and  Richard  looked  the  worse  for  wear 
but  that  was  all.  Yet  upon  both  of  them  lay  a  queer 
lethargy,  a  heavy  burden  of  dread. 

"What  ails  us?"  thought  Mercy.  "By  six  o'clock,  Rich 
must  start  back  to  Springfield.  We  have  only  these  few 
hours  together.  And  here  we  must  sit  as  dumb  as  two 
graven  images.  I'm  ashamed  of  us!" 

At  five  o'clock  that  afternoon  Father  and  his  solidly 
packed  household  drove  up  the  lane.  Worn  out  by  the  long 
drive  home  through  the  flooded  fields,  they  wasted  scarce 
a  word  of  greeting  upon  Richard.  Mercy  forebore  to  trouble 
them  at  once  with  an  account  of  Thomas's  illness,  but  in- 
stead set  about  making  her  family  comfortable. 

She  brought  out  dry  clothing  and  started  a  kettle  of  soup. 

While  she  was  setting  the  table  two  men  rode  up  the 
lane.  Sheriff  Correll  and  Lind  Wheeler,  his  deputy,  both 
armed.  They  entered,  hardly  pausing  to  knock.  Father  rose 
up  and  greeted  them  cordially. 

"Sit  down,  gentlemen.  Supper  will  be  ready  in  a  minute. 
We  are  glad  to  have  you  with  us." 

The  sheriff  looked  at  him  queerly. 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Stafford,  but  I  reckon  you  know  why  we're 
here.  We  want  your  young  friend." 

"What  young  friend?" 

"Richard  Harrison.  He  can  tell  you  why  we  want  him, 


THE    FATHER  327 

all  right.  Folks  found  young  Owen  lying  dead  in  Coles 
Creek  in  shallow  water  close  by  the  Andrews'  place. 
Drowned?  Yes,  and  worse  than  drowned.  He'd  been  beat 
and  pounded  to  death  first,  then  slung  into  the  creek.  He 
was  all  one  black  bruise  from  head  to  foot.  Colonel  An- 
drews told  us  that  young  Harrison  had  stopped  there  yes- 
terday, with  some  papers  from  Lawyer  Lincoln.  And 
Owen's  jaw  was  tied  up  with  a  handkerchief.  A  handker- 
chief with  'R.H.'  sewed  on  it." 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-TWO 

AFTERWARDS,  Mercy  need  not  try  to  remember. 
>  She  could  see  it  all,  very  small  and  sharp  and  clear,  as 
if  drawn  with  the  finest  of  pens  on  the  thinnest  parchment. 
So  fine,  so  clear,  she  could  see  the  coarse  stained  skin  of 
the  sheriff's  hand  as  he  dropped  it  on  Rich's  shoulder.  She 
could  see  the  blank  amazement  on  Rich's  face  change  to 
question,  then  to  slow  kindling  anger.  She  could  see  her- 
self flash  across  the  room  and  tear  the  sheriff's  hand  away. 
She  could  hear  her  own  senseless  scream  of  fury.  "Rich 
didn't — he  didn't!  When  Rich  put  him  on  his  horse  he 
was  able  to  ride  away.  Rich  didn't  go  back  and  drown  him. 
He  couldn't!  He  stayed  right  with  me " 

Then  Rich  had  turned  and  struck  his  hand  down  over 
her  mouth,  struck  down  so  hard  it  bruised  her  lips  till  they 
bled.  His  swift  angry  whisper  rang  in  her  ears.  "Mercy 
Rose!  Be  quiet.  Don't  you  dare  say  one  word.  Not  one 
word — to  anybody!"  Then  Father  had  caught  her  back, 
hushing  her  sternly.  And  before  she  could  tear  herself 
from  him,  before  she  could  snatch  Rich  away  from  them, 
they  had  snatched  him  away  from  her.  And  Father's  voice 
was  echoing  too. 

"Mercy,  be  quiet.  Richard  is  innocent.  He  could  not 
have  done  this  thing.  Be  quiet!" 

"Go  get  Rich  for  me  then!  Go  bring  him  back  to  me!" 

"I'll  have  to  wait.  We  must  both  wait.  You  shall  have 
Rich  again.  But  to-night  we  must  give  way  to  the  law. 
To-morrow  I'll  get  Mr.  Lincoln " 

"To-morrow — to-morrow!  Get  him  to-night.  I  won't 
wait.  /  won't!" 


THE    FATHER  329 

"My  child,  look  at  that  flooded  road.  It  took  me  seven 
hours  to  bring  us  home  from  Springfield  to-day.  It  would 
take  even  longer  if  I  tried  to  go  back  to  Springfield  by 
night.  I'll  start  at  daybreak.  Even  if  I  could  reach  Mr. 
Lincoln  to-night,  he  could  do  nothing  till  morning.  We'll 
have  to  go  into  court,  we'll  have  to  try  for  bail " 

"I  want  Rich  to-night.  I  will  have  him  to-night.  Father, 
you  must  bring  him.  You  must!" 

He  could  not  soothe  her.  He  could  not  silence  her.  He 
knelt  beside  her,  holding  her  tight,  he  poured  out  his 
anguished  tenderness,  his  tortured  futile  pity.  At  last 
through  her  agony  there  came  a  gleam  of  light. 

Richard  was  innocent.  Anybody  could  see  that,  who  had 
the  sense  to  see  at  all.  All  she  need  do  was  to  hold  her 
silence  as  Rich  had  commanded  her — to  say  nothing  of 
Owen's  attack  upon  her,  nothing  of  that  day  and  night.  It 
would  be  hard.  Mercy's  stern  little  chin  quivered  at  the 
thought.  But  it  was  the  only  way  that  she  could  deal  hon- 
estly by  Rich. 

Aunty  was  right.  Men  folks  were  a  terrible  responsi- 
bility. But  Rich  was  innocent.  Everybody  could  see  that. 
And  by  suppertime  to-morrow  night,  Mr.  Lincoln  would 
have  come  and  straightened  out  everything.  Just  as  he 
always  did.  And  Rich  would  be  here,  just  as  always.  He 
would  be  laughing  at  her  for  being  such  a  silly  calf  about 
him.  He'd  be  telling  Aunty  that  the  eye  of  man  had  never 
alighted  on  such  squirrel  pie,  and  he'd  be  challenging 
Thomas  to  a  pancake  contest,  and  stuffing  down  fat  little 
sausages  meanwhile  with  the  speed  of  light.   .   .   . 

Then  deathly  terror  caught  her,  swept  her  from  head 
to  foot. 

She  stood  up.  Her  knees  shook  under  her,  a  black  mist 
rolled  before  her  eyes.  But  she  lifted  her  head  high,  and 
she  set  her  little  chin  like  iron.  Father's  own  chin. 


330  THE    FATHER 

"I'm  sorry,  Father.  I'm  going  to  behave  now.  To- 
morrow things  won't  be  so  dreadful." 

Father  wasn't  grown  up,  really.  He  was  nothing  but  a 
little  boy.  Not  one  minute  older  than  Adoniram.  For  she 
hadn't  got  the  words  out  of  her  mouth  till  that  gray  terror 
was  fading  from  his  face.  He  pulled  himself  together, 
precisely  as  Donny  pulled  himself  together  when  you'd 
tided  him  through  a  lonesome  spell.  All  the  light  came 
back  into  his  face,  all  the  cheerfulness  to  his  voice.  .  .  . 
N-no.  Perhaps  not  quite  all. 

"There's  my  good  girl!"  Father's  arms  caught  her 
tight. 

But  back  of  that  cheerful  patient  voice  she  could  feel 
the  heavy  beat  of  his  heart.  Father's  dear  patient  heart, 
weighed  down,  leaden  with  fear  for  her.  "We'll  get  Mr. 
Lincoln  by  daylight.  He'll  straighten  everything  out.  No 
doubt  about  it.  Now  sleep,  dear." 

Sleep!  Could  she  ever  sleep  again? 

But  sleep  she  did.  On  her  narrow  bed,  Thomas  held 
tight  for  comfort,  she  lay  in  a  sleep  like  death  for  hours 
on  hours.  When  she  awoke  at  last,  she  scrambled  out  of 
bed,  realizing  only  that  she  had  slept  outrageously  late, 
and  stood  struggling  drowsily  to  brush  the  sleep  from  her 
heavy  eyes.  It  was  not  till  she  stooped  to  kiss  little  Thomas 
awake  that  that  black  remembering  swept  down  on  her. 

For  a  minute  she  stood  gripping  the  limp  little  Thomas. 
Her  face  turned  white  as  chalk,  her  hands  grew  ice.  The 
room  whirled  and  darkened  around  her.  She  stood  there 
very  straight  and  small  in  her  skimpy  little  nightgown. 
She  fingered  the  lace  sleeve  ruffles,  with  numb  bewildered 
hands.  Yes,  it  was  that  identical  old  lacy  gown.  Father 
had  torn  the  hem  from  it  that  night,  to  make  Rich's 
bandage.  Aunty  had  mended  it  for  her,  and  she  had  scolded, 
too,  because  the  whole  lower  edge,  with  two  yards  of  inch- 


THE    FATHER  331 

wide  shell-crochet  lace,  was  gone  beyond  recall.  Mercy 
chuckled  faintly.  Oh,  well,  who  cared?  Even  if  shell 
crochet  was  poky  to  make,  it  had  done  good  service.  It  had 
tied  up  that  ugly  cut  for  Rich.  For  Rich.  But  now  Rich 
was  gone  and  this  time  she  couldn't  reach  him.  She  couldn't 
help  him.  All  she  could  do  for  him  was  to  keep  still.  Rich 
had  told  her  to  keep  still.  Well,  all  right.  But  it  surely 
would  be  hard.  .  .  .  Again  that  black  mist  thickened 
before  Mercy's  eyes.  The  rough  boards  slid  away  beneath 
her  feet.  Yes,  it  would  be  hard.  But  Rich  had  commanded 
her.  At  least  she  could  do  this  one  thing  that  he  asked  her. 
Menfolks  had  to  have  their  way  about  things.  And  any- 
way, there  was  no  use  in  worrying  Father. 

Before  sunrise,  Father  had  started  on  horseback  to 
Springfield.  He  came  back  hours  after.  He  looked  very 
queer,  and  ashen  white.  When  he  swung  off  Button  he 
stumbled  and  nearly  fell.  Mr.  Lincoln  had  gone  to  Rock 
Island.  Something  to  do  with  a  Government  case.  Mrs. 
Lincoln  had  said  he  might  be  back  in  three  days.  But  no 
telling. 

Mercy  did  not  say  much.  If  she  had  to  keep  still,  she'd 
keep  still.  It  wasn't  as  hard  as  you'd  think.  Not  when  she 
was  doing  it  for  Rich.  For  Rich. 

The  day  dragged  endlessly.  The  little  boys  hung  around 
their  sister,  awed  and  quiet.  They  did  not  understand.  But 
something  had  hurt  their  sister.  She  did  not  romp  with 
them,  not  once  that  whole  long  day.  She  did  not  talk  about 
their  school.  She  did  not  talk  about  anything.  She  wasn't 
Mercy,  that  was  all.  When  they  came  home  from  school, 
she  didn't  run  to  meet  them.  To  be  sure,  she  did  draw 
a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well  and  fill  the  basin,  so  that 
they  could  wash  their  grimy  hands.  She  spread  a  royal 
plateful    of    bread    and    'lasses,    and    tied    up    Thomas's 


332  THE    FATHER 

stubbed  toe,  and  soused  sweet-oil  on  Seth's  cowlick,  just 
as  she  always  did.  But  she  wasn't  Mercy.  She  wasn't  there. 
She  was  looking  for  something  she  had  lost,  searching  for 
somebody  else.  Richard.  Richard.  Richard. 

Once  or  twice,  that  dark  mist  thickened  before  her  till 
she  found  herself  clutching  out,  snatching  to  grasp  him, 
till  she  could  feel  her  throat  so  dry  and  taut  in  the  effort 
to  shriek  his  name.  But  she  choked  back  that  scream,  she 
forced  her  gripping  hands  to  go  back  to  whatever  task  lay 
near.  There  was  quite  enough  to  keep  her  hands  busy. 
Thomas's  last  trousers  were  worn  through  at  the  knees,  and 
Donny  hadn't  a  decent  pair  of  stockings  to  his  name,  and 
Seth  had  played  lion-tamer  last  Sunday  and  tried  to  tease 
Cartouche  into  a  rough-and-tumble  fight.  Cartouche,  for 
all  he  was  so  lazy  and  so  drowsy,  had  given  Seth  one  large 
impatient  slap  with  a  huge  paw  which  raked  his  Sabbath 
raiment  fore  and  aft.  How  in  the  nation  could  anybody 
mend  cat  scratches  that  had  ripped  good  heavy  broadcloth 
into  fringe,  Aunty  had  declared  indignantly.  But  Mercy 
had  taken  hold  and  was  weaving  the  raveled  fibers  back 
inch  by  inch.  Although  as  Mr.  Lincoln  would  say,  it  was 
proving  a  land-office  job. — After  a  while  Mr.  Lincoln 
would  come.  And  he  would  straighten  out  all  this  hideous 
tangle.  He  would  clear  Richard.  He  would  make  every- 
thing right.  Richard.  Richard.  Every  thought  led  back  to 
Richard.  Because  Richard  was  all  the  world.  And  you 
couldn't  go  on  living  without  him  much  longer. 

And  soon,  queerly  soon,  came  the  night.  And  sleep 
that  folded  her  like  the  cloak  of  death,  itself. 

Then  came  the  brazen  flaming  of  another  day.  And  on 
this  day  Father  did  not  leave  the  house.  He  hung  around 
near  Mercy,  his  eyes  hardly  left  her  face.  Through  that 
black  mist,  Mercy  was  very  sorry  for  Father.  She  knew 
that  he  was  suffering  for  her.  She  knew  that  he  was  doing 


THE    FATHER  333 

everything  in  his  power  for  Rich.  She  knew  that  the  reason 
he  didn't  speak  to  her  was  because  he  was  in  too  much  mis- 
ery to  speak.  Well,  she  didn't  dare  speak,  either.  Rich  had 
told  her  not  to  say  anything.  She  must  hold  fast  to  Rich's 
command.  Menfolks  were  queer,  anyway.  But  Rich  had 
ordered  silence.  It  was  hers  to  obey. 

The  second  day  dragged  on  and  on.  It  was  a  cruel  day. 
It  would  never  make  an  end.  Blundering,  blinded  under 
that  thickening  mist,  Mercy  stumbled  on  and  on. 

On  the  third  day,  she  rose  up  with  a  flare  of  desperate 
courage.  Three  days.  To-day  Mr.  Lincoln  would  come. 
Mr.  Lincoln  would  make  everything  right.  But  nothing 
seemed  to  change  at  all. 

It  was  just  another  day.  Just  another  day  of  agony,  of 
fear. 

Over  and  over  she  fought  that  creeping  dread. 

"When  Mr.  Lincoln  comes "  she  said  to  herself,  a 

quivering  promise.  "When  Mr.  Lincoln  comes " 

But  she  said  not  one  word  to  Father.  What  good  did 
it  do?  And  anyway,  she'd  only  worry  Father. 

After  a  while  she  knew  that  the  foundations  of  her 
world  were  giving  way  beneath  her  feet.  For  till  now 
Father  had  always  done  everything.  Father  had  always 
understood.  Now  Father  could  only  stumble  up  and  down 
the  lane,  hour  on  hour.  Or  else  sit  with  his  hands  locked 
together  and  stare  into  her  face,  as  if  the  sheer  power  of 
his  great  anguished  love  could  lift  this  shadow  from  his 
darling.  Mercy  knew  what  he  was  suffering.  To  know 
that  this  was  hurting  Father  so  terribly  was  just  one  more 
stab.  But  she  couldn't  say  a  word  without  hurting  Father 
still  more.  And  anyway  Richard  had  told  her  to  keep 
silence.  Richard.  Richard.  .   .   . 

At  four  o'clock  Donny  and  Seth  and  Thomas  came 
banging  into  the  house. 


334  THE    FATHER 

Donny  and  Seth  entered  in  a  humor  far  from  brotherly. 
Donny  was  as  one  beset  by  the  cantankerousness  of  this 
present  world.  The  school  children  had  long  since  dis- 
cerned his  sensitive  side,  and  ingenious  young  fiends  that 
they  were,  they  had  profited  largely  by  their  discovery.  On 
hot  moisty  days  like  this  one,  Donny's  freckles,  always  too 
visible,  grew  actually  luminous.  To-day  he  had  faced  hours 
of  torment.  "Ginny-egg,  Ginny-egg!"  The  hateful  cry 
had  hailed  him  at  every  turn.  Donny  was  adding  day  by 
day  to  his  slim  little  store  of  pluck,  but  a  whole  day  of 
bullying  was  too  much.  Only  one  place  in  the  world,  he 
knew,  meant  comfort.  He  headed  straight  for  Mercy's  lap. 

Seth,  too,  had  his  woes.  Chief  among  them  was  his  de- 
spised cowlick.  For  the  sake  of  that  cowlick  he  had  en- 
dured jibes  without  number.  To-day  his  enemies  had  been 
all  but  inspired  in  epithet. 

Now  deep  in  Seth's  heart,  a  tiny  flame  of  envy  had  al- 
ways smoldered  towards  Donny.  Donny,  who  need  only 
turn  pale  and  sniffle  a  time  or  so,  to  gain  his  sister's  eager 
anxious  pity.  To-day  when  he  observed  his  brother  hasten 
to  the  coveted  refuge  that  tiny  fire  flamed  high. 

Seth  and  Donny  arrived  on  Mercy's  lap  at  precisely  the 
same  moment.  Two  heads  bumped  together  with  a  rever- 
berating crack.  Seth,  plump  and  a  bit  clumsy,  spilled  off 
Mercy's  knee  and  landed  sprawling  on  the  floor.  But 
Donny,  agile  little  rascal,  had  seen  Seth  coming.  His  strong 
little  arms  shot  around  Mercy's  neck  in  a  choking  grip. 
A  cruel  grip.  Mercy  gasped  out  as  those  powerful  little 
fingers  closed  on  the  unhealed  cut. 

"Oh-h-h!  Don't,  Donny!  Oh,  please!" 

She  stopped  with  a  gulp.  No.  You  mustn't  worry  Father. 
That  was  her  instant  thought.  But  Father  had  seen  too 
much.  He  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  he  had  caught  Donny 


THE    FATHER  335 

from  her  arms  and  set  him  down  on  the  floor  with  a  bump 
that  jarred  the  rafters. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?  Can't  you  see  you've  hurt  your 
sister?" 

"Oh,  but  he  didn't!"  Mercy  had  dropped  back,  dizzy 
and  sick.  For  the  pain  was  dreadful.  So  dreadful  that  it 
loosed  the  words  upon  her  tongue.  "Donny  didn't  know — 
he  wouldn't  have  hurt  me  for  the  world " 

But  Father  had  let  go  of  Donny.  He  stood  there  looking 
down  at  Mercy  Rose.  Mercy  had  never  seen  him  look  like 
that.  His  face  was  gray  and  drawn  and  old.  His  eyes  were 
blazing.  Mercy  floundered  on. 

"Donny  couldn't  have  hurt  me,  Father.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  cut " 

"What  cut?" 

Mercy  felt  shaken  and  queer.  Never  in  all  her  life  had 
Father  spoken  to  her  like  this.  His  voice  was  quiet.  Deadly 
quiet.  His  eyes  on  her  were  dark  flames. 

"Why,  the  poor  little  fellow  ...  he  just  brushed  the 
place  where  Frederick  Owen " 

Father's  voice  was  gentle  as  always.  Gentle,  even  now. 
But  the  quiet  syllables  seared. 

Father  waited.  He  put  out  his  hand  to  Mercy,  then  drew 
it  back  again.  Mercy  stared  at  it  vaguely.  If  he  had  touched 
her,  she  would  have  known  how  cruelly  he  was  trembling, 
how  cold  he  was.  Cold  with  terror  of  what  her  next  words 
might  be.  But  he  did  not  touch  her.  He  just  stood  there  in 
his  dusty  work  clothes,  leaning  to  her.  His  beautiful  gray 
head  bent  close. 

"Tell  me." 

Oh,  you  couldn't  say  No  to  him.  And  yet 

"Tell  me,  dear." 

Again  that  gentleness,  that  merciless  gentleness,  that 
all  but  broke  her  down. 


336  THE    FATHER 

"I — I  mustn't.  Richard  told  me  not  to  say  one 
word » 

"Richard!"  Father  was  shaken  with  a  fury  that  all  but 
stopped  his  breath.  Always,  always  Richard.  "How  did  he 
dare." 

"Oh,  Father,  you're  all  wrong!  Richard  didn't  do  one 
thing  to  me.  But  when  Frederick  Owen  slashed  into  my 
shoulder " 

"Mercy  Rose!   Will  you  tell  me " 

But  now  Father's  voice  was  terrible.  His  face  was  whiter 
than  the  gray-white  wall  behind  him.  Mercy  began  to 
choke.  She  was  suffocated  with  bewilderment  and  fear. 

"Oh,  Father,  I  haven't  told  you  one  word.  I  was  so 
afraid  I  would  hurt  Rich.  Anyway,  it's  nothing  so  terrible. 
It's  n-nothing " 

Then  Mercy's  iron  clutch  on  herself  gave  way  disgrace- 
fully. She  began  to  cry.  All  the  tears  that  she  had  held  back 
these  endless  days  broke  past  her  wall  of  self-command, 
swept  her,  drowned  her. 

But  she  had  been  all  wrong  about  Father.  Father's  voice 
was  still  so  hard  and  cold  and  tremulous,  but  it  wasn't 
harsh.  Not  one  bit.  Because  when  you'd  gotten  hold  of  the 
last  shred  of  Father's  voice,  there  wasn't  any  harshness 
left  in  it.  It  was  all  tenderness. 

"Mercy  Rose,"  he  spoke  again,  "tell  me.  Tell  Father." 

When  Father  spoke  like  that,  you  had  to  answer  him. 
But  it  was  tearing  her  in  little  pieces. 

She  swallowed  back  her  tears  and  set  her  grim  little  chin. 
The  chin  that  was  so  precisely  like  Father's  own. 

"I'm  awfully  ashamed,  Father.  To  be  such  a  baby  about 
this.  But  you  see,  it  hasn't  healed  right.  And  if  you  touch 
it,  you — well  you  can't  really  stand  it.  And  when  Donny 
landed  so  hard " 

Father  had  reached  the  end  of  his  rope  of  endurance. 


THE    FATHER  337 

With  one  movement,  light  as  the  breeze,  gentle  as  a  falling 
leaf,  he  had  lifted  the  bandage  from  her  throat. 

He  did  not  say  anything.  Only  he  drew  one  quick  hard 
breath  at  sight  of  the  pitiful  angry  scars.  Then  he  put  back 
the  bandage,  and  found  fresh  linen  to  fold  over  it.  After 
a  while,  he  spoke. 

"I  wouldn't  tell  Aunty,  dear." 

"No,  sir." 

"But  I  would  tell  Mr.  Lincoln." 

"Why,  Father " 

"I  mean  it,  daughter.  Yes,  I  know  Richard  did  not  want 
you  to  say — anything.  But  tell  Mr.  Lincoln.  Maybe  he'll 
reach  home  by  morning." 

His  voice  stopped.  Up  the  lane,  his  horse's  hoofs  splash- 
ing in  every  puddle,  came  Mr.  Brooker.  He  called  a 
friendly  hail. 

"How  are  you,  neighbor?  I  stopped  by  to  bring  your 
mail.  I  saw  Mr.  Lincoln  getting  off  the  stage,  maybe  an 
hour  ago.  He  looked  some  ilaxed  out.  Reckon  Government 
cases  ain't  so  easy  sledding  as  they  look.  Reckon  he's  glad 
to  get  home  again." 

Father  nodded  briefly.  He  reached  for  his  bundle  of 
mail.  But  Mercy  gave  one  quick  exultant  gasp.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln was  in  Springfield  this  minute! 

"We'll  ride  in  to  see  Mr.  Lincoln  the  first  thing  to- 
morrow morning,  daughter."  Father  had  read  her  thought. 
She  laid  her  cheek  to  his,  submissively.  But  back  of  that 
submission,  her  wild  heart  was  throbbing  out  its  will.  To- 
night! To-night!  To-night! 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  house  to  grow  quiet,  that 
evening.  But  to  Mercy,  waiting  at  her  attic  window,  it  took 
hours.  She  did  not  think  to  put  on  a  dark  dress.  It  never 
entered  her  mind  to  change  her  light  shoes.  When  at  last 


338  THE    FATHER 

she  crept  out,  slid  to  the  slanting  shed  roof  and  dropped  to 
the  ground  below,  her  thin  slippers  were  soaked  in  the  first 
three  steps.  Her  pink  dress  and  white  apron  made  a  pale 
blur  against  the  night. 

She  would  have  to  take  Button.  This  was  chancy  enough, 
for  he  was  forever  going  lame.  But  Betsy  would  be  sure 
to  snort  and  whinny  as  she  led  her  from  the  barn.  And 
Father  was  only  too  easily  awakened. 

Button  was  exasperating.  He  did  not  approve  of  this 
performance,  and  he  stamped  and  sidled  till  she  quaked 
with  fear.  If  Father  should  waken!  But  at  last  they 
reached  the  highroad.  Once  under  way  Button  went  like 
clockwork,  in  spite  of  the  slippery  mire. 

After  a  while  the  rain  stopped.  Out  of  the  cloud-drifts 
wandered  a  pallid  bedraggled  old  moon,  trailing  shreds  of 
mist.  One  small  star  tagged  after  her,  clinging  to  her 
tattered  apron-strings.  Mercy  looked  up  at  her.  Just  such 
a  dreary  forlorn  old  moon  had  wandered  down  the  sky 
that  night  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  The  night  that  she  and 
Father  had  sat  together  in  the  midnight  woods.  The  night 
when  down  upon  them  like  a  spent  arrow  had  fallen  the 
beautiful  wounded  boy.  Her  boy.  How  young  she  had  been 
in  those  days,  what  a  funny  silly  little  calf,  to  dream  of 
a  princely  lover  who  would  come  racing  down  the  forest 
road  to  rescue  her!  Rescue  her,  indeed!  When  all  she  asked, 
when  all  she  could  ever  ask  in  this  created  world,  was  the 
chance  to  rescue  him,  to  snatch  him  back  from  the  dark 
brink  where  he  stood  to-night!  Aunty's  sardonic  old  voice 
rang  in  her  ears.  "Menfolks  are  an  awful  responsibil- 
ity  "  Oh,  and  weren't  they  worth  it!  Weren't  they! 

Button  splashed  on.  It  was  a  little  easier  going,  now. 
To  be  sure,  the  mud  was  fetlock  deep,  but  the  faint  moon- 
light was  a  help. 

Before  her  loomed  a  sign-post.  She  urged  Button  as  far 


THE    FATHER 


339 


as  she  dared  from  the  road,  so  that  she  could  peer  up  at 
it.  Johnston  Crossroads.  Good  enough.  If  they  could  keep 
up  as  steady  a  pace  as  this,  she  could  reach  Springfield  not 
long  after  midnight. 

Button  floundered  miserably.  This  patch  of  road  was 
far  worse  than  the  miles  that  had  preceded  it.  He  stumbled 
and  lost  his  balance  with  a  racking  jerk.  Mercy  pulled  him 
up  sharply.  Too  sharply.  He  slipped  and  plunged  to  his 
knees.  He  scrambled  to  his  feet  at  once.  But  now  he 
lunged  and  staggered  at  every  step. 

"He's  wrenched  that  shoulder  again.  I  don't  dare  make 

him  go  another  minute.  But Oh,  I  never  can  make 

it  afoot!  Button,  try,  try!" 

No  use  coaxing.  Button  was  done.  He  stood  still,  snort- 
ing, quivering.  Mercy  sprang  down  and  turned  him  into 
a  field  near  by. 

This  was  grim  ill-luck.  But  maybe  she  could  walk 
the  rest  of  the  way,  after  all.  Five  miles,  six  miles,  in 
mud  to  her  knees.  Yes,  she  could  make  it. 

Only What  about  Coles  Creek? 

She'd  forgotten  Coles  Creek.  Even  yesterday  it  had  been 
far  out  of  its  banks.  By  to-night  it  would  be  a  flood.  Even 
a  strong  swimmer  would  have  found  that  rough  cold 
current  a  heavy  strain.  Mercy  could  not  swim  a  stroke. 

"I  can  swim  it,  if  I've  got  to,"  she  said  to  herself.  But 
at  thought  of  that  black  water,  that  shelving  treacherous 
bank,  she  grew  queerly  limp  and  sick.  "I — I've  got  to 
swim  it.  If  I  can  get  to  Mr.  Lincoln  by  morning — if  I  can 

tell  him  all  that  happened Oh,  well,  I  can  make  it. 

I  can  make  it  for  Rich.  For  Rich  .   .  ." 

She  pushed  steadily  on. 

After  a  while  she  realized  that  she  was  getting  very 
tired.  She  had  plodded  through  the  mire,  halfway  to  her 
knees,  at  a  steady  unrelenting  pace.  But  now  her  gait  was 


340  THE    FATHER 

slackening,  and  she  hadn't  even  reached  Coles  Creek. 
It  was  still  more  than  a  mile  away. 

"I  ought  to  step  up  faster,"  she  thought.  For  fifty  yards 
or  so  she  did  step  up  faster.  But  it  seemed  as  if  the  mud 
grew  deeper  with  every  step.  This  wouldn't  do  at  all. 
She  would  have  to  hurry. 

She  tried  to  hurry.  But  with  the  first  longer  step  a 
wrench  of  pain  caught  at  her  leg  muscles,  twisted  them, 
wrung  them.  She  went  pitching  against  the  worm  fence 
with  a  wail  of  misery. 

"I  can't,  I  can't.  Yes,  you  can,  too.  Get  along  with  you, 
you  'fraid-cat,  for  this  is  for  Rich.  This  is  for  Rich." 

Every  step  meant  a  wrench  of  torture.  She  plunged  on. 
After  a  while,  she  heard  a  faint  distant  sound.  The  far- 
away irregular  thump  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  It  was  so  far 
behind  her  that  it  must  be  miles  away.  Farther  behind  than 
the  field  where  she  had  abandoned  Button,  she  thought. 

"Somebody  in  a  hurry,"  she  thought  dully.  "Well,  I 
ought  to  be  in  a  hurry  myself.  Get  along,  you  coward. 
Can't  you  remember  that  you've  got  to  get  there  in  time? 
You've  got  to  reach  the  house  by  midnight.  Earlier,  maybe. 
Can't  you  realize  that  this  is  your  best  chance?  You  want 
to  get  hold  of  Mr.  Lincoln  before  everybody  else  finds  out 
that  he  has  come  home.  For  they'll  all  want  him,  on  their 
own  court  cases.  And  I've  got  to  have  him  for  Rich.  For 
Rich.  .  .  ." 

She  struggled  on.  The  moonlight  was  some  company 
for  her,  but  only  for  a  while.  Soon  the  waning  crescent 
had  slipped  to  the  rim  of  the  horizon.  The  faint  star  shine 
which  would  be  now  her  only  light  was  dimmed  by  fog. 
The  road  grew  heavier;  it  was  harder  and  harder  to  keep 
her  footing  on  those  hummocks  of  mire. 

At  last  she  glimpsed  Coles  Creek.  Under  the  vague  star- 


THE    FATHER  34i 

light,  the  swift  black  water  was  veiled  so  heavily  in  fog 
that  she  could  not  discern  the  farther  shore. 
She  stopped,  breathless,  on  the  steep  bank. 
"If  it  wasn't  quite  so  slippery !  If  the  water  wasn't  quite 

so  high " 

But  the  bank  was  high  and  steep,  and  the  current  below 
was  one  dark  rush  and  swirl.  Mercy  tried  dizzily  to  descend 
that  treacherous  crumbling  shore.  Almost  at  the  water 
level,  she  slipped,  blundered.  The  racing  water  swept 
across  her  ankles,  and  rose  like  a  flood  of  ice  to  her  knees. 
Terror-stricken,  she  scrambled  back  to  higher  ground. 
"If  it  wasn't  so  dark,"  she  gasped,  through  chattering 
teeth.  "There's  a  ford  near  by,  I  know  that.  If  only  I 

could  wade  across I've  got  to  cross,  I  tell  you.  I've  got 

to  get  to  Mr.  Lincoln  for  Rich— for  Rich " 

The  horseman  behind  was  approaching.  His  horse  was 
fresh  and  swift,  that  was  clear.  The  animal's  hurrying 
bucketing  gait  told  that.  There  was  something  queerly 
familiar  about  that  gait. 

"I've  heard  that  horse's  pace  before.  I  wish  I  knew 

O-Oh,    it's    Betsy!    And    Father   is   riding   her Oh, 

Father,  Father!" 

Betsy  was  picking  her  way  like  the  fussy  fine  lady 
she  was,  down  the  miry  slope.  Father  had  slipped  to  his 
feet  and  was  walking  beside  her,  guided  by  her.  In  the 
dim  light  Mercy  could  not  see  his  face.  But  she  stumbled 
up  the  shelving  bank  to  him.  Father  still  held  to  Betsy's 
bridle.  His  free  arm  shot  out  and  caught  Mercy  tight. 
"Oh,  Father,  I  knew  you'd  come!" 
Father  chuckled,  his  own  old  soothing  reassuring 
chuckle. 

"Don't  you  think  it  was  about  time?" 

Something   leaped   and   soared   in    Mercy's  breast.   The 


342  THE    FATHER 

dying  moon  lifted  a  torch  of  flame.  The  black  miry  road 
turned  to  a  highway  of  silver. 

"Now,  dear,  we've  got  to  find  that  ford.  Betsy  will 
pick  her  way  to  it.  We  don't  need  to  worry." 

They  did  not  need  to  worry.  Betsy,  shrewd  creature, 
tiptoed  down  the  creek  bank  for  nearly  half  a  mile.  Finally 
she  halted,  for  a  minute  or  so.  She  sniffed  and  tossed  her 
head,  protesting.  Then,  with  the  drollest  hesitation,  exactly 
as  if  she  were  picking  up  intangible  petticoats,  she  tiptoed 
into  that  black  water. 

Mercy  crouched  high  on  the  pommel,  but  the  racing 
current  washed  over  her  and  all  but  tore  her  from  her 
seat.  Father  swam  beside  Betsy.  His  low  voice  never  ceased 
coaxing  her,  encouraging  her.  Twice  Betsy  halted,  shud- 
dering. The  icy  rush  of  the  water  was  almost  beyond  the 
might  of  her  stout  heart.  But  she  struggled  on. 

The  opposite  bank  loomed  high.  Suddenly  Betsy  caught 
a  secure  footing.  Tilting,  balancing  like  a  ballet  dancer, 
she  thrust  her  way  up  the  bank,  stopped  with  a  neigh  of 
triumph  on  solid  ground. 

Father  shook  himself  like  a  big  dog.  Water  dripped  in 
steady  streams  from  his  big  shoulders.  Mud  squelched  in 
his  shoes  and  plastered  his  face  and  hands. 

"Who  said  we  couldn't  make  it!  Only  three  miles  more 
to  Springfield  and  Mr.  Lincoln's  house,  Mercy.  Only  three 
miles  more!" 

A  pale  and  watery  dawn  was  painting  the  sky  with  a 
raw  gray  light  as  they  reached  Mr.  Lincoln's  house  and 
looped  Betsy's  bridle  over  the  hitching  post. 

It  took  a  good  while  to  waken  the  house.  Father  rang 
and  rang  the  clanging  old  bell.  Mercy  pounded  on  the 
door. 

Finally  an  upper  window  opened.  Out  thrust  a  tousled 
head. 


THE    FATHER 
"What  in  the  name  of  judgment- 


343 


'Come  downstairs  a  minute,  Mr.  Lincoln.  It's  just  us." 

"Mercy  Rose!  And  Mr.  Stafford!  What  in  the  na- 
tion  " 

The  head  disappeared.  Soon  the  front  door  swung  open. 
Mr.  Lincoln,  wrapped  in  vast  yellow-flannel  toga,  stood, 
candle  in  hand. 

"Where  did  you  two  come  from?  What  has  happened? 
,You  look  as  if  you'd  been  dipped  in  the  creek!" 

Mercy  looked  up  at  him.  In  the  gray  light,  her  little 
ghostly  face  was  pure  joy. 

"It's  about  Richard.  But  now  I've  found  you,  every- 
thing will  be  all  right.  You'll  take  care  of  Richard.  You'll 
save  him.  For  me." 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-THREE 

"TlSTEN  to  me,  son.  Let  me  get  this  straight."  For  the 
A-'  twentieth  time,  Mr.  Lincoln  took  a  fresh  grip  on 
his  waning  patience.  He  leaned  forward  and  bent  steady 
keen  eyes  on  Richard's  steady  keen  face.  "You  want  to 
remember  I'm  your  attorney.  I'm  doing  my  best  for  you. 
But  I've  got  to  have  the  whole  story.  You  must  give  a 
man  something  definite  to  work  on.  Out  with  the  rest  of 
it." 

"I've  told  you  all  you  need  to  know.  I've  told  you 
that  I  thrashed  Frederick  Owen.  Thrashed  him  hard.  But 
I  didn't  kill  him.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

"You  say  that  after  you'd  thrashed  him  you  tied  up  his 
broken  jaw  and  helped  him  on  his  horse  and  saw  him 
ride  off.  Where  did  you  go  after  that?" 

"Where  I  went  then  is  my  own  affair.  I  take  my  oath 
that,  the  last  time  I  laid  eyes  on  Owen,  he  was  riding  away 
in  the  direction  of  his  farm.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

"But  man  alive,  you  must  prove  your  whereabouts  dur- 
ing the  time  intervening.  You  say  it  was  around  four 
o'clock  when  you  and  Owen  fought.  Where  were  you  for 
the  next  twenty- four  hours?  What  were  you  doing?  Can't 
you  see  that  your  life  hinges  on  that  measure  of  time?" 

"That  happens  to  be  nobody's  business.  Not  even  yours, 
Mr.  Lincoln." 

Mr.  Lincoln  got  up,  strode  across  the  room,  and  then 
slumped  down  into  his  chair  again. 

"The  minute  Mercy  and  her  father  had  given  me  a 
clear  road,  this  fool  had  to  block  it,"  he  thought  wrath- 
fully. 


THE    FATHER  345 

What  was  a  man  to  do  with  such  a  chivalrous  young 
idiot?  Especially  when  he  knew  very  well  that  if  he  stood 
in  the  young  idiot's  shoes,  he  himself  would  hold  this 
identical  stubborn  silence. 

"Look  here,  Richard.  You  want  to  shield  little  Mercy. 
But  she  does  not  need  your  protection  now,  not  as  she  will 
need  it  in  years  to  come.  If  you  really  want  to  take  care 
of  her,  you'll  save  your  life  for  her.  You'll  not  risk  it  like 
this." 

Not  a  flicker  came  on  that  young  hard  face. 

"I'm  willing  to  take  my  chances  on  it." 

Mr.  Lincoln  got  up  again  and  paced  the  jail  floor,  speak- 
ing eloquently  under  his  breath.  Finally  he  took  another 
tack. 

"If  I  promise  not  to  repeat  one  word  you  say,  if  I  give 
you  my  oath  on  that,  will  you  tell  me?  Tell  me,  not  for 
your  own  sake,  but  for  Mercy's?" 

Richard  was  not  so  adamantine  as  he  appeared. 

"If  you  put  it  that  way.  .  .  .  Well.  I'd  like  to  tell  you 
what  happened,  and  maybe  you  can  find  a  way  out  for  me. 
But  you're  not  to  bring  in  Mercy's  name.  Mind  that.  If 
you  do,  I'll  stand  right  up  in  court  and  tell  the  jury  that 
you're  lying  to  save  me.  The  whole  town,  the  jury  itself, 
is  dead  against  me  as  it  is,  because  of  my  Underground 
work.  You  know  that.  You'd  have  the  easiest  time  in  the 
world  convincing  them  that  I  ought  to  be  hung.  So  don't 
slip  up.  Don't  speak  her  name.  For  if  you  do  you'll  hang 
me." 

"Hold  your  horses,  son.  I  promise,  right  now,  never  to 
speak  her  name.  But  go  on.  Maybe  I  can  find  us  a  crack  to 
crawl  through.  No  telling." 

"All  right.  Here  goes.  Mercy  and  I  went  out  riding. 
Owen  accosted  her,  attacked  her  at  that.  I  gave  him  what 
he  needed,  and  gave  it  good  and  plenty.  Then  I  took  Mercy 


346  THE    FATHER 

home.  Her  folks  had  all  gone  to  Springfield  and  I  stayed 
there  that  night.  All  night.  Don't  you  see  that  I  can't  men- 
tion her  name?" 

He  stopped.  All  that  insolent  calm  of  his  was  shaken. 
Slow  crimson  poured  into  his  face. 

"Oh.  Of  course  I  see."  Over  Mr.  Lincoln's  own  face 
came  measureless  pity.  Of  course  he  understood,  he  said 
to  himself.  The  two  adoring  young  creatures,  alone  in  that 
empty  house.  Blame  them?  As  well  blame  the  wind  of 
destiny  that  had  swept  them  together. 

"Yes.  I  see.  No,  I'll  not  mention  that  child's  name  in 
the  court  room,  Harrison.  Nor  will  I  mention  it  anywhere 
else.  You  can  depend  on  me." 

Mercy  sat  in  the  window,  trying  to  mend  the  tattered 
object  that  was  Seth's  last  surviving  roundabout.  She  had 
sat  there  and  fumbled  with  it  for  an  hour.  Probably  she 
would  fumble  another  hour  before  Aunty  would  come  in 
and  take  it  from  her  hands  and  say,  so  gently,  "Never 
mind,  my  lamb.  I've  got  a  plenty  of  time  for  the  mending. 
Go  lie  down,  now.  Try  to  sleep. 

Try  to  sleep.  That  was  what  they  always  said  to  her. 
Try  to  sleep.  If  they  would  only  help  her  to  wake  up 
instead!  If  they  could  only  help  her  to  break  down  the 
wall  of  mist  that  was  rising  around  her  hour  by  hour! 
That  wall  of  mist  that  had  changed  too  swiftly,  so  in- 
credibly, into  a  wall  of  glass  that  cut  her  off  from  breath- 
ing, even! 

She  looked  back  curiously  at  the  faraway  night  when 
she  had  fought  her  way  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  when  she  had 
thrown  her  whole  burden  of  fear  on  his  great  shoulders. 
Mr.  Lincoln  was  her  strong  hope.  Surely,  surely  he  could 
not  be  failing  her! 

That  was  two  weeks  ago,  and  Richard  still  sat  alone 


THE    FATHER  347 

and  waited.  And  she  too  must  sit  waiting,  waiting  with  a 
face  of  ashes,  the  pulse  in  her  blood  a  waning  thread.  And 
now  Mr.  Lincoln  was  yet  holding  his  silence.  Oh,  could 
Mr.  Lincoln  be  defeated,  too? 

She  had  made  Father  take  her  to  see  Richard,  just  once. 
She  stared  back  at  that  glimpse  of  him  with  a  dull  wonder. 
At  sight  of  him,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  heart  had 
broken,  very  quietly.  Everybody  stood  so  far  beyond  that 
mighty  wall  of  glass.  But  Richard  was  farther  away  than 
anybody.  Miles  away.  Never  again  could  she  reach  him. 
Never  could  she  break  her  way  through  that  crystal  wall. 
Richard  looked  just  as  usual.  He  didn't  look  like  a  pris- 
oner on  trial  for  murder.  He  had  on  his  best  suit,  and  his 
hair  was  brushed  like  satin,  and  he  glanced  at  her  as  if 
he  hardly  knew  her,  and  said,  "Hello,  Mrs.  Lot,"  and  that 
was  all.  When  he  spoke,  though,  his  mouth  had  given  a 
little  twitch.  She  had  seen  that  twitch  around  Donny's 
mouth  when  he  was  trying  to  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  not 
give  way  to  a  lonesome  streak.  You  could  usually  comfort 
Donny  by  giving  him  something  interesting  to  do.  But  you 
couldn't  give  Rich  anything  so  very  interesting.  Not  when 
he  was  fighting  for  his  life. 

Though  he  would  not  talk  to  her,  he  did  say  something 
to  Father.  Poor  Father,  so  gray  and  shaky,  with  his  gray 

shaky   whisper "Richard,   tell   me  what  to  do.    God 

knows  I'd  do  anything.  Anything!" 

Richard  had  stared  at  him.  Then  he  had  pulled  Father 
aside.  But  Mercy  caught  his  fierce  undertone:  "Keep 
Mercy's  name  out  of  this.   Don't  bring  her   here  again. 

Don't  let  them  drag  her  in.  Not  even  if Never,  I  tell 

you!" 

Perhaps  it  was  quite  as  well  that  she  had  not  asked 
Father  why  Rich  was  so  stern  about  it.  Didn't  he  know 
well  enough  that  she  was  keeping  still,  just  as  he  had  bade 


348  THE    FATHER 

her?  But  even  if  Father  had  tried  to  explain,  the  chances 
are  that  she  would  never  have  understood  him.  For  her 
anguish  had  dulled  her  past  all  understanding.  She  had 
gone  home  and  ironed  the  tablecloths  and  Father's  shirts. 
Twonnet  couldn't  iron  a  shirt  decently,  and  Aunty  got  too 
tired.  She  had  done  a  great  baking  and  made  wild-straw- 
berry preserves  and  sent  Jo  Vanny  to  dig  a  huge  mess  of 
dandelion  greens.  "Get  enough  for  the  monkeys  and  us, 
too."  And  Father  had  come  home,  and  called  her  into  his 
little  study,  and  brought  a  basin  of  water  and  the  liniment, 
and  he  had  bathed  her  throat  and  bandaged  it,  with  hands 
that  shook  for  tenderness  and  eyes  that  could  hardly  see. 
It  made  her  throat  feel  better,  but  it  was  dreadful  to  worry 
Father  so.  And  she  had  moved  about  like  a  little  chalk 
image,  driven  by  rusty  jerky  wires.  And  all  the  time  she 
was  counting.  Seven  days  till  Richard's  trial.  Six  days.  Five. 
Four.  Three.  Two.  One. 

She  awoke  long  before  daybreak  that  last  morning.  She 
crept  down  from  her  loft  and  went  out  into  the  dark  rain- 
wet  garden.  In  the  soft  night,  she  groped  to  the  little  peach- 
pie  trees,  and  stood  holding  fast  to  a  slim  branch.  There 
was  something  she  must  think  out.  There  was  something 
she  could  do  for  Rich. 

If  she  could  only  remember.  If  she  could  only  plan. 
But  now  she  could  not  think.  She  could  not  even  feel.  She 
could  not  see.  She  put  the  ruby  ring  to  her  lips,  she  peered 
through  the  dark,  but  she  could  not  see  Rich's  face.  The 
wall  of  glass  was  too  tremendous.  Rich  was  too  far  away. 

It  was  barely  daylight  when  Mr.  Lincoln  plodded  up 
the  lane  and  tied  old  Tom  to  the  rack.  Even  the  little  boys 
were  not  yet  awake.  Mr.  Lincoln  bent  over  Mercy  as  she 
sat  crouched  on  the  doorstep. 


THE    FATHER  349 

"Beat  me  up  this  morning,  didn't  you?  Want  to  fetch 
me  a  bite  of  breakfast,  my  dear?" 

Mercy  stumbled  obediently  into  the  kitchen.  She  brought 
him  some  porridge  and  milk  and  set  a  slopped  cup  of 
coffee  before  him.  Not  even  Twonnet  could  have  been 
more  clumsy.  She  had  put  on  a  fresh  blue  muslin  dress  and 
a  crisp  pink  apron.  Above  that  smart  starched  rose  and 
blue  her  face  was  lusterless,  her  mouth  was  sagged  and 
dull. 

"Mercy,  to-day  is  Richard's  trial." 

(How  funny  of  him  to  tell  her  that!) 

"And  you  had  better  come  to  the  court  house.  Be 
there  by  ten.  I  shall  call  you  to  the  stand.  I  want  you  to 
tell  the  Judge  that  Richard  came  home  with  you  after  his 
fight  with  Owen.  And  that  he  never  left  you.  And  that 
he  was  never  out  of  your  sight  till  the  sheriff  arrested  him 
the  next  afternoon." 

Mercy  stared  at  him  listlessly.  He  was  darkly  flushed. 
He  was  trying  to  drink  his  coffee  but  his  hand  shook  so  that 
he  splashed  it  all  over  the  clean  tablecloth. 

"Why,  of  course  he  never  left  me.  Not  for  one  minute. 
The  judge  must  know  that." 

"The  judge  does  not  know  that." 

"Didn't  Rich  explain  why  he  stayed  all  night  with  us?" 

Mr.  Lincoln  stared  down  into  her  puzzled  eyes.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  striking  a  child. 

"Listen,  Mercy.  As  the  case  stands,  the  court  believes 
that,  after  giving  Owen  that  beating,  Richard  took  you 
home  and  then  went  back  alone,  killed  Owen,  and  threw 
him  into  Coles  Creek.  If  you  can  make  the  court  under- 
stand that  Richard  did  not  leave  you  .  .  .  don't  you  see 
that  that  gives  him  a  chance  at  acquittal?" 

Mercy  tried  hard  to  understand. 


350  THE    FATHER 

"You  mean  that  Rich  has  never  explained  all  that.  That 
he Oh,  I  see  now." 

Mercy' s  small  chin  set  hard.  Slow  painful  scarlet 
burned  to  her  eyelids. 

"Yes.  I  understand,  now.  Don't  you  worry  about  me, 
Mr.  Lincoln.  I'll  come." 

Mr.  Lincoln  rode  away.  On  his  gaunt  face  there  was 
an  expression  at  once  heartsick  and  grimly  satisfied. 

"All  all  events  I  have  kept  my  word  to  young  Harrison. 
By  a  shyster's  trick,  though.  I  swore  I'd  never  bring 
Mercy's  name  into  court.  I  did  not  swear  that  I  would  not 
bring  Mercy  herself." 

It  was  a  long  way  up  the  courthouse  steps.  Mercy  had 
to  take  those  steps  one  at  a  time,  she  was  so  dizzy.  She 
had  slipped  out  of  the  house  cautiously,  for  fear  they  might 
see  her  and  make  her  stop.  But  only  Thomas  had  seen. 
Promptly  he  had  tagged  after  her. 

"Where  you  going,  sister?  I  want  to  go,  too." 

"Come  on,  then."  She  took  his  warm  little  hand.  His 
chubby  grasp  was  vaguely  pleasant.  She  hadn't  thought  of 
taking  anybody.  But,  far  behind  that  huge  impassable  wall, 
she  was  rather  glad  to  have  him  beside  her. 

She  crept  down  the  dingy  halls.  It  was  a  hot  day.  The 
courtroom  door  stood  open.  Through  it  came  a  high  snap- 
pish voice,  asking  questions.  Then  Richard's  voice,  cool 
and  insolent  and  serene. 

"That  is  all  you  have  to  say  in  your  own  defense?" 

"That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Richard  was  just  leaving  the  stand.  In  the  hour  he  had 
stood  there  under  fire,  he  had  managed  to  antagonize  the 
entire  audience.  He  had  made  an  abominable  witness  for 
himself,  Mr.  Lincoln  thought  angrily.  Had  he  played  for- 
lorn and  persecuted  youth,  unjustly  accused,  he  might  have 


THE    FATHER  351 

won  for  himself  some  sympathy.  Instead,  he  strode  into 
the  courtroom,  his  head  up,  his  trim  garments  as  brushed 
and  ordered  and  fresh  as  a  bridegroom's,  so  unabashed,  so 
jaunty,  and  he  had  looked  down  on  the  stubby  little  prose- 
cutor almost  with  amusement.  As  he  stepped  down  an  ugly 
mutter  drifted  through  the  room. 

Mercy  pushed  forward,  holding  Thomas's  hand.  No  one 
had  noticed  them.  They  might  have  been  two  children  who 
had  wandered  curiously  in. 

She  drew  close  to  Mr.  Lincoln.  She  reached  over  and 
touched  his  arm. 

Mr.  Lincoln  looked  up.  With  a  great  start  he  sprang  to 
his  feet.  Away  from  the  other  side  of  that  wall  of  glass, 
she  heard  his  stammering  words,  "New  witness — unex- 
pected— if  your  honor  will  permit " 

She  stood  before  Judge  Parsons  now.  Was  that  her  own 
voice?  What  a  funny  crackly  little  squeak!  She  must  do 
better  than  that.  But  it  was  sort  of  bewildering,  for  now 
they  were  all  craning  and  staring  at  her.  Staring  as  if  she 
was  some  ridiculous  little  animal  that  had  crept  into  this 
solemn  place.  Well,  what  of  it?  They  looked  rather 
ridiculous  themselves.  The  stout  old  judge,  huddled  behind 
his  desk,  looked  like  a  surprised  old  rabbit.  His  shoulders 
were  hunched,  his  large  lumpy  nose  was  quivering.  His 
white  blobs  of  whisker  twitched,  his  dewlaps  swung  as  if 
they  meditated  flight  on  their  own  account.  The  jurymen 
reached  forward  from  their  tight  pew.  They  were  all 
Bakerstown  folks,  they  all  knew  her,  but  they  gaped  and 
goggled  as  if  they'd  never  laid  eyes  on  her  before.  But  she 
could  not  see  them  so  very  clearly.  For  the  glass  wall  was 
shimmering  now  like  a  great  glass  bubble,  and  its  curving 
transparence  sucked  in  and  out,  so  that  all  the  faces  flick- 
ered and  glimmered  like  faces  seen  in  a  blazing  fireplace. 
Still,   she   knew   everyone.   And   there   was  Father,    in    his 


352  THE    FATHER 

black  Sunday  clothes,  with  his  mouth  set  white  and  his 
dear  hands  clenched  on  the  back  of  the  chair  in  front  of 
him.  Father  wouldn't  look  at  her,  for  he  was  afraid  that 
one  glance  might  shake  her  courage.  Likely!  Mr.  Lincoln 
was  standing  up,  holding  her  with  his  eyes,  tall  and  yellow 
and  slouching,  with  his  coarse  black  Injun  hair,  as  Aunty 
called  it,  all  scrabbled  back  from  his  cadaverous  face  and 
the  sweat  of  misery  running  in  rivulets  down  his  fur- 
rowed cheeks.  But  even  his  face  blurred  and  grew  dim.  All 
the  faces  were  dim.  All  but  one.  Richard's.  Richard's  face 
stood  out  sharp  and  clear,  graven  like  marble  against  the 
stained  buff  wall.  Richard 

No.  She  must  not  look  at  him.  She  dared  not.  For  if  she 
once  met  Richard's  eyes,  those  curving  walls  of  glass  would 
shiver  around  her.  And  all  her  strength  would  fall  in 
splinters,  too,  and  there  wouldn't  be  one  thing  left  of  her. 
Nothing  but  the  handful  of  glass  right  under  folks'  feet. 

"Mercy  Rose  Stafford "  It  was  Mr.  Lincoln  speak- 
ing, a  hum  of  meaningless  words  like  swarming  bees. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Lincoln,  may  I  tell  Judge  Parsons 
just  what  happened?" 

Again  that  blur  of  words. 

"Judge  Parsons,  I  don't  believe  anybody  really  knows 
what  a  plague  Frederick  Owen  was  to  me.  He  was  ugly 
to  me  from  the  start.  It  all  began  in  Father's  printing 
office.  I  was  working  at  the  press,  and  he  came  in  and 
started  to  make  fun  of  me  and  of  the  press  because  it 
wasn't  doing  very  good  work.  He  tried  to  make  sport  of 
Father,  too.  When  he  found  we  didn't  pay  attention  to  him 
he  got  awfully  silly.  He  tagged  me  everywhere,  and  asked 
me  to  go  riding,  he  brought  me  boxes  of  store  candy,  he 
even  brought  Thomas  a  peppermint  cane  and  Adoniram  a 


THE    FATHER  353 

toy  rifle.  But  I  made  Donny  give  the  rifle  back.  Finally 
he  came  to  the  office  again  and  started  to  cut  our  initials 
on  the  wall,  his  and  mine.  And  I  made  him  stop.  That 
vexed  him.  I  guess  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wanted 
to  hurt  me.  Worse  than  hurt  me.  Shame  me  so  dreadfully 
that  it  would  shame  Father  and  all  of  us " 

Richard  shot  to  his  feet,  but  the  sheriff's  heavy  hand  fell 
on  his  arm.  Father  leaped  forward.  Mr.  Lincoln's  instant 
warning  gesture  thrust  him  back. 

"Well,  he  got  his  chance  to  hurt  me.  And  he  took  it." 

The  people  in  the  courtroom  weren't  people  any  more. 
They  were  just  eyes.  Ring  on  ring  of  staring  eyes. 

She  halted  again.  The  room  had  begun  to  rock  and 
swing.  Mr.  Lincoln  lunged  over  to  the  water-bucket  and 
filled  a  tin  cup.  She  drank  obediently.  Then  he  drank, 
gulping,  the  way  he  did  the  day  of  their  prairie  fire.  His 
big  hands  shook  as  he  set  down  the  cup. 

The  water  tasted  good.  It  washed  the  queer  husk  out 
of  Mercy's  throat.  She  spoke  on. 

"You  remember  telling  us  about  the  Creole  Belle  mirror, 
Mr.  Lincoln?  Rich  and  I  went  driving  over  that  way.  He 
was  taking  those  papers  to  Colonel  Andrews  for  you.  Coles 
Creek  was  so  high  that  he  left  me  and  the  chaise  on  this 
side  and  swam  one  of  the  horses  across.  He  wasn't  gone 
half  an  hour,  but  it  began  to  rain,  so  I  went  into  the 
haunted  cabin. 

"Frederick  Owen  was  there.  I  didn't  know  it  till  he 
spoke  to  me.  Then  I  saw  that  he  was  very  drunk.  Surly, 
too.  I  started  to  run,  but  he  caught  me  and  threw  me 
against  the  wall  and  struck  me  over  and  over.  Then  he 
jerked  out  that  little  dirk  of  his  and  cut  my  dress  off 
my  shoulders  and  began  to  cut  his  initials  on  my  throat. 
Look." 


354  THE    FATHER 

She  pulled  back  the  blue  gingham  ruffles.  On  her  soft 
throat,  the  jagged  unhealed  scar  stood  out,  a  swollen 
crimson  ridge. 

"He'd  made  only  that  one  cut,  though,  when  Rich  came 
tearing  in.  Rich  was  furious.  He  grabbed  Frederick  and 
gave  him  a  terrible  thrashing.  Then  I  helped  him  tie  up 
Frederick's  jaw.  And  he  put  him  on  his  horse  and  he  rode 
away  towards  his  farm.  He  was  so  drunk,  though,  and  so 
shaken  up  from  his  beating  that  I  suppose  he  must  have 
turned  his  horse  and  tried  to  cross  the  creek.  That  was  why 
they  found  him  in  the  creek,  drowned." 

The  room  was  deadly  still.  So  still,  you  could  hear  a 
blue  fly  buzzing  against  the  pane. 

Then  Mr.  Lincoln  spoke. 

"You  are  telling  us  all  this  in  order  to  prove  that 
Richard  Harrison  had  sufficient  provocation " 

"No,  Mr.  Lincoln.  I  want  to  prove  that  Richard  could 
never  have  killed  Frederick  Owen.  He  couldn't.  For  after 
Frederick  had  galloped  off,  Richard  took  me  home.  He 
meant  to  start  west  that  night,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  go. 
I  made  him  stay.  All  the  folks  were  in  Springfield,  and  I 
was  afraid  to  stay  alone  with  Thomas,  for  poor  Thomas 
had  the  worst  attack  of  croup  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  If  your 
own  little  boys  ever  had  croup,  Judge  Parsons,  you  know 
all  about  it.  You  know  how  terrible  it  is  when  they  choke 
and  choke  and  you  can't  help  them.  Richard  and  I  worked 
all  night  and  twice  I  thought  Thomas  would  strangle.  But 
he  pulled  through,  though  he's  croaky  even  yet.  It  was  al- 
most five  that  morning,  though,  before  he  could  breathe. 
So  you  see  Rich  was  never  out  of  my  sight.  He  had  no 
chance  to  go  back  and  kill  Frederick,  even  if  he  had  wanted 
to." 

She  halted.  The  room  was  growing  very  dark.  Probably 


THE    FATHER  355 

a  thunderstorm  was  coming  up.  The  watching  eyes  stared 
at  her  through  a  thickening  blur. 

— "Judge  Parsons,  I  should  have  told  you  all  this  long 
ago.  But  I  never  dreamed  how  foolishly  my  menfolks 
were  behaving.  I  didn't  know  that  they  were  keeping  all 
this  back.  And  all  on  my  account.  You  know  how  ridicu- 
lous your  own  men  can  be.  Always  trying  to  take  care  of 
you,  to  keep  people  from  talking  about  you,  from  telling 
cruel  lies — as  if  lies  could  ever  make  any  real  difference! 
Always  so  set  on  shielding  you,  even  if  they  risk  their  own 
lives  to  do  it.  They  never  do  understand.  Not  for  one 
minute.  They  never  can  realize  that  you've  got  the  right  to 
shield  them,  to  take  care  of  them — that  they  belong  to 
you,  just  exactly  as  much  as  you  belong  to  them " 

The  curved  glass  walls  were  sliding,  swerving:  they 
grew  thinner,  every  instant.  But  the  room  was  so  dark. 
She  could  not  see  Mr.  Lincoln  any  more.  She  could  not  see 
Rich.  She  must  hurry  and  finish,  and  finish,  and  go  to 
Father.  Father's  face  she  could  see,  and  clearly.  Under  his 
silver  crest,  his  face  was  like  death.  If  she  could  just  reach 
him,  comfort  him 

But  there  was  a  splintering  crash.  And  the  darkness 
closed  down. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-FOUR 

A  T  eight  o'clock  that  night,  Old  Tom's  hoofs  clattered 
■*  *  up  the  lane.  Mercy,  lying  in  Father's  big  chair,  lifted 
her  drowsy  head.  This  was  an  unheard-of  hour  for  Mr. 
Lincoln  to  arrive.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  this  unheard-of 
day.  What  could  bring  him  so  late? 

She  looked  down  on  her  small  elegant  self  with  vague 
complacence.  She  had  lain  asleep  all  afternoon,  a  limp  ex- 
hausted sleep.  But  to-night,  Aunty  and  Miss  Evelina  had 
helped  her  to  get  up  and  dress.  Each  glimpse  at  the  eagle 
mirror  gave  an  added  satisfaction.  Over  her  delightful  lilac 
poplin  lay  her  mother's  shawl  of  amber  crepe,  with  fading 
wistaria  wreaths  of  lilac-blue.  On  her  feet  were  her  Sun- 
day slippers;  on  her  little  hand  glittered  the  great  ruby, 
shining  with  deep  promise.  Through  the  kitchen  door  she 
could  see  Rich,  attended  by  the  admiring  little  boys.  In  the 
presence  of  this,  their  hero,  even  little  Thomas  had  long 
since  ceased  to  stick  out  a  jealous  tongue. 

However,  Rich  had  failed  to  live  up  to  his  glories. 
Even  as  they  hurried  him  home  from  the  courthouse,  he 
had  put  that  black  fortnight  behind  him  as  if  it  had  never 
been  and  had  inquired  anxiously  whether  they  had  plenty 
of  Mercy's  bread  and  cookies  at  hand.  It  appeared  that  jail 
fare  consisted  largely  of  greenish  saleratus  biscuits  and 
sodden  doughnuts.  Once  arrived,  he  had  been  fed  by  a 
dozen  eager  hands  at  once.  His  capacity,  however,  ap- 
peared unlimited.  He  had  eaten,  then  slept  for  hours,  then 
arrayed  himself  with  splendor  and  wandered  to  the  kitchen 
again,  where  he  and  the  little  boys  were  now  sociably  pick- 


THE    FATHER  357 

ing  the  bones  of  the  roast  wild  turkey  that  Mrs.  Brooker  had 
sent  over.  Father  was  out  there  too. 

"Poor  Father,  he's  always  been  so  cruelly  jealous  of 
Rich,"  thought  Mercy.  "But  he  knows  now  that  he  can't 
hate  Rich  without  hating  me.  For  I'm  just  a  piece  of  Rich, 
now.  And  he's  doing  his  very  best  to  take  him  as  his  own. 
But  it's  what  Mr.  Lincoln  would  call  a  land-office  job. 
Goodness,  what  can  have  made  Mr.  Lincoln  come  away  out 
here?  At  such  a  time  of  night?" 

Mr.  Lincoln  had  stopped  at  the  kitchen  door.  There  was 
a  clamor  of  welcoming  voices.  He  came  in,  the  whole 
family  trailing  at  his  muddy  heels.  He  looked  at  once 
embarrassed  and  smug,  as  well  he  might.  For  he  carried 
two  parcels.  One  was  a  jeweler's  box,  small  dainty,  tied 
with  betraying  white  ribbon.  The  other  was  a  bandbox,  a 
gigantic  flowered  bandbox,  covered  with  Chinese  paper,  all 
green  and  gilt  chrysanthemums,  and  sky-blue  pagodas,  and 
plum-colored  dancing  girls. 

"W-why " 

With  vast  ceremony,  Mr.  Lincoln  put  the  little  parcel 
in  her  hand.  She  opened  it.  Before  her  delighted  eyes 
shone  twelve  brand  new  silver  spoons. 

"Why,  Mr.  Lincoln " 

"Well.  We've  sort  of  decided,  your  Father  and  I, 
that  this  district  isn't  too  healthy  for  Richard.  Folks  act 
some  grouchy  because  he's  been  acquitted.  So  we  two  con- 
cluded we'd  marry  you  off  to-night.  And  ship  you  off  to 
Springfield.  Mrs.  Lincoln  and  the  boys  are  over  to  Van- 
dalia  on  a  visit.  There  isn't  a  soul  in  the  house,  and  you'll 
take  my  front  door  key.  Early  to-morrow  morning,  you 
slip  out  and  take  the  early  morning  stage  to  St.  Louis. 
There  you  will  meet  a  big  Kansas-bound  caravan  that  starts 
out  west  by  Thursday.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  the  leader, 
Ainsley.  He's  an  old  friend  of  mine.  He'll  help  you  buy 


358  THE    FATHER 

your  horses  and  outfit  right  in  St.  Louis,  and  he'll  advise 
you  where  to  buy  your  land  when  you  get  out  to  Kan- 
sas  " 

The  tumult  that  arose  drowned  his  voice  completely. 

"Married  to-night!    Of  all  the  outlandish "  "But, 

Mr.  Lincoln,  Richard  is  too  tired  to  start  off  on  the 
jump "  "But  I  want  Mercy  Rose  to  have  a  real  wed- 
ding cake  and  a  wedding-dress "  "Those  things  do  not 

matter,  Aunty.  But  to  give  Mercy  up,  and  no  warn- 
ing  "  "Sister,  wait  for  me.  I  want  to  go,  too!" 

Father  and  Rich  were  gasping  in  unison.  Mr.  Lincoln 
went  serenely  on. 

"Now  this  will  be  a  hard  drive,  and  I  know  your  team 
isn't  up  to  it  to-night.  So  this  is  Jo  Vanny's  job.  Here,  Jo 
Vanny!  Harness  up  your  gilt  wagon,  and  the  ponies.  Even 
if  you  drive  straight  into  the  mob,  no  danger.  For  they'll 
never  look  for  our  bride  and  groom  in  your  circus  wagon." 

Jo  Vanny  stood  nailed  in  his  tracks.  His  brown  little  face 
grew  pale. 

"Who,  me?" 

"Yes,  you.  Go  tidy  up  your  chariot!" 

Jo  Vanny  fled  in  ecstasy. 

"Now  I  realize  that  no  wedding  is  legal  without  a  pres- 
ent or  so.  I  thought  up  the  spoons  myself."  Mr.  Lincoln 
expanded  slightly.  "And  when  I  was  here  this  morning, 
I  asked  your  Aunty  what  sort  of  a  present  you'd  probably 
like  best,  and  she  said,  a  wedding  bonnet.  I  couldn't  get 
a  regular  bride's  bonnet,  there  wasn't  one  in  town.  But 
I  did  bring  this  one.  Seems  kind  of  topheavy,  but  maybe  it 
will  do." 

He  dived  into  the  bandbox.  There  was  made  manifest  a 
bonnet.  It  was  an  awful  bonnet.  It  was  an  unspeakable 
bonnet. 

"I  showed  it  to  Mary,"  perhaps  Mr.  Lincoln  had  read 


THE    FATHER  359 

Mercy's  stricken  eyes.  "She  said,  'For  Heaven's  sake,  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  who  ever  sold  you  that?  I  wouldn't  be 
found  dead  in  it.'  I  guess  the  milliner  kind  of  outdid  her- 
self." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  it,  isn't  there?"  Thus  Seth,  the 
unterrified. 

Then  Mercy  rose  to  starry  heights. 

"I  think  it's  wonderful,  Mr.  Lincoln.  I  thank  you  with 
all  my  heart.  There  never  was  anybody  like  you." 

Mr.  Lincoln  beamed.  "Stick  it  on." 

Mercy  stuck  it  on. 

There  was  a  silence.  Mrs.  Lincoln  was  right.  Nobody 
would  have  been  found  dead  in  it.  It  had  started  out  in 
life  to  be  a  violet  Tuscan  coal-scuttle  with  long  filmy 
beau-catchers  of  lilac.  So  far,  so  good.  But  when  you 
added  a  large  indigestible  wreath  of  green  grapes,  and 
three  shaded  purple  plumes;  when  a  bunch  of  pink  roses 
simpered  over  one  ear  and  a  stuffed  Brazilian  parrot  leered 
above  the  other.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  it  would  please  Mr.  Lincoln 
she'd  wear  anything.  Anything! 

But  Mr.  Lincoln  was  viewing  it  with  a  dubious  eye. 

"Seth's  right.  Maybe  if  you'd  skin  off  that  embalmed 
bird " 

Then  descended  Aunty,  another  Atropos,  scissors  in 
hand.  The  parrot,  the  acrid  green  grapes,  the  funereal 
plumes,  the  roses,  all  fell  as  ripe  grain  before  the  sickle. 
There  remained  a  small  rapturous  face,  framed  in  violet, 
wreathed  in  a  mist  of  lilac. 

Mr.  Lincoln  looked  on,  amazed.  Then  he  looked  at 
Aunty.  In  his  eyes  lay  awe. 

"Keep  those  scissors  handy,  Aunty.  For  I've  got  a  raft 
of  speeches  to  make  this  summer.  And  I'll  bet  my  last  dime 
that  I'll  need  those  scissors.  And  you  to  work  'em." 

He  went  leisurely  to  the  door.  Father  and  Rich  went 


360  THE    FATHER 

leisurely  with  him.  Father's  voice  was  quick  and  quiet  in 
his  ear. 

"You  didn't  ride  all  the  way  from  Springfield,  purposely 
to  bring  Mercy  that  bonnet!" 

"The  bonnet.  And  a  few  rounds  of  ammunition.  I  don't 
like  the  humor  that  this  town  is  in,  Stafford.  Your  recent 
articles  in  the  Clarion  have  stirred  folks  up  a  good  deal. 
And  Richard's  acquittal  has  made  them  boil  over.  Of  course 
the  decent  folks  are  keeping  their  mouths  shut,  but  a  few 
hot-heads  are  trying  to  wake  things  up.  Just  as  well  I  stay 
here  to-night." 

Richard  turned  away,  towards  Mercy.  The  two  older 
men  stood  looking  darkly  into  each  other's  faces.  Father 
spoke  out  their  thought. 

"If  I  only  shared  Mercy's  utter  faith  in  Richard.  .  .  . 
But  no  matter  how  generously  I  try  to  feel  towards  the 
boy,  I  can't  feel  certain  that  his  innocence  is  proven.  For 
Frederick  Owen  is  dead.  I  don't  believe  he  drowned  by 
accident.  Somebody  killed  him.  And  if  not  Richard — then 
who?" 

"I  know  how  you  feel."  Mr.  Lincoln's  gaunt  face  grew 
dull  with  tormenting  thought.  "I've  told  myself  a  dozen 
times  over,  that  Rich  is  innocent.  Yet  if  Owen  died  because 
of  Rich's  thrashing,  it  puts  even  a  darker  stain.  Anyway, 
all  my  sympathy  is  with  Rich.  He'd  be  a  poor  sort,  if  he 
hadn't  struck  a  blow  for  his  betrothed.  .  .  .  Lord,  but  I 
wish  I  knew!" 

He  halted.  Father,  grim  and  haggard,  had  thrust  in. 

"We'll  hurry  Mercy  and  Rich  away  to-night,  if  you 
think  it  is  necessary.  But  wherever  can  we  find  a  minister?" 

Then  Mr.  Lincoln  unbent,  with  a  long  triumphant 
chuckle. 

"Leave  that  to  me.  I  picked  up  the  young  man  who  is  to 


THE    FATHER  361 

preach  for  us  at  the  Lord's  Barn  next  Sunday.  He's  badly- 
scared,  for  this  will  be  his  first  wedding,  but  he  has  prom- 
ised to  do  his  very  best,  and  I  believe  we  can  trust  it  to  him. 
I  found  him  as  I  came  through  Bakerstown.  He  says  he's  as 
orthodox  as  they  come,  though  he  hasn't  yet  made  up 
his  mind  which  denomination  he  belongs  to.  But  that  is 
no  concern  of  ours.  The  main  thing  is  that  he's  waiting 
down  the  lane,  this  minute." 

To  Mercy  Rose  the  short  hour  that  followed  sped  like 
a  wheel  of  magic.  Picture  on  picture  graved  itself  upon 
her  memory.  Aunty,  issuing  stern  hurrying  commands  to 
everybody,  from  Mr.  Lincoln  on  down,  yet  her  tense  hands 
shaking,  her  poor  face  wet  with  unknowing  tears;  Miss 
Evelina,  so  swift  to  help,  so  loving  and  so  sisterly,  yet  her 
soft  eyes  dark  with  strange  envy;  the  little  boys,  who 
nocked  around  her,  very  quiet,  very  manly,  but  decidedly 
tremulous.  Finally  poor  Thomas  yielded  to  whole-hearted 
gulps,  and  that  set  off  all  three. 

"Oh,  boys,  don't!"  Mercy  was  on  her  knees  on  the  floor, 
she  was  trying  to  get  all  three  forlorn  little  figures  into  her 
arms  at  once.  "Don't  start  on  a  lonesome  spell  yet,  Donny. 
And,  Seth,  you  mustn't  roar  so,  I  can't  live  and  bear  it. 
Listen,  now!  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  I've  wanted 
three  things.  I've  wanted  to  ride  away,  forever,  with  a 
prince.  A  real  prince.  Ride  away  through  moonlight.  And 
in  a  gold  coach.  Now,  I'm  going  to  have  my  three  wishes. 
Moonlight,  gold  coach,  prince  and  all!" 

"Huh."  Seth  made  a  plucky  effort  to  swallow  back  his 
sobs.  "If  Mercy's  got  what  she  wants,  us  fellows  may's 
well  hush  up.  Listen,  Mercy.  Dast  we  be  bridesmaids?" 

Bridesmaids  they  were,  much  to  the  bewilderment  of 
the  serious,  somewhat  thick-headed  young  man  whom  Mr. 


362  THE    FATHER 

Lincoln  had  commandeered.  It  was  a  trying  experience  at 
best  for  that  puzzled  youth.  From  the  first,  he  had  agreed 
to  perform  this  ceremony  with  much  misgiving.  Was  it  an 
orthodox  act,  indeed,  to  marry  a  man  who  had  stood  in 
court  not  twenty- four  hours  ago,  accused  of  willful  mur- 
der? And  whoever  laid  eyes  on  such  a  light-minded  bride, 
her  bonnet  tied  on  all  very  neatly, — this  was  Aunty's  doing, 
— but  a  forgotten  pink  gingham  apron  still  tied  around 
her  waist,  and  three  excited  little  boys  clinging  to  her,  and 
pinching  each  other  into  decorous  behavior?  And  who 
ever  beheld  such  a  distracted  bridegroom,  a  groom  as  white 
as  ashes,  who  gave  his  bride  hardly  a  moment  for  her  fare- 
wells, but  hustled  her  into  the  preposterous  gilded  wagon 
and  carried  her  away,  in  such  mad  haste  that  her  little  trunk 
must  be  hurled  in  half-packed,  its  rawhide  straps  still  wav- 
ing in  the  breeze!  To  be  sure,  he  had  gathered  a  vague 
idea  that  there  was  need  for  prompt  departure.  But  what 
unseemly  haste! 

Mercy  was  not  abashed  by  his  cold  young  disapproval. 
Over  and  over  she  counted  her  dear  new  memories.  Aunty's 
face,   Miss  Evelina's,   Twonnet's,  glowering  on   Rich   in 

bitter  dread:  Father's  look No,  she  need  not  try  to 

remember  Father's  look.  For  Father's  face  would  be  with 
her  always. 

And  Jo  Vanny!  Keenest  of  all  her  memories  in  days  to 
come,  would  be  the  recollection  of  Jo  Vanny's  face,  when 
Mr.  Lincoln  had  commanded  him  to  take  Richard  and 
herself  on  the  first  hours  of  their  wedding  trip.  All  humility 
fled  Jo  Vanny.  He  fairly  reared  and  swaggered.  With 
difficulty  was  he  persuaded  not  to  polish  his  wagon  once 
more  for  this  dripping  prairie  ride.  This  was  his  wedding, 
please  understand,  and  lesser  folk  like  Father  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  had  better  keep  away.  Promptly  the  little  boys  lost 


THE    FATHER  363 

all  interest  in  these  trivial  beings,  the  bride  and  groom. 
They  tagged  Jo  Vanny  from  house  to  barn  and  back  again, 
they  clung  to  him  with  solemn  admiring  eyes. 

"Only  one  thing  kind  of  roils  me,"  sighed  Mr.  Lin- 
coln. "When  I  tell  Mary  Lincoln  what  she's  missed " 

"Oh-h,  if  you  think  she  wouldn't  like  it  for  us  to  stay 
overnight " 

"Go  slow,  Mercy.  You're  on  the  wrong  track.  Mary 
won't  think  of  holding  that  against  you.  But  I  surely  wish 
there  had  been  time  for  me  to  fetch  her  in.  She  dotes  on 
weddings  and  on  funerals.  Cries  her  eyes  out  at  either  one. 
Well,  she'll  feel  I've  been  holding  something  from  her.  No 
doubt  about  that." 

But  now  their  golden  chariot  was  at  the  door.  A  vast 
bland  moon  had  lifted  its  lantern  against  the  mi6ty  sky. 
Laughing,  crying,  awed,  exultant,  they  rode  away. 

At  daybreak,  Father  and  Mr.  Lincoln  awoke.  Both  felt 
extremely  sheepish.  For  the  threat  of  a  mob  had  vanished 
into  thin  air. 

"We  might  as  well  have  waited  till  morning,  then  sent 
them  off  with  a  flourish,"  grumbled  Mr.  Lincoln. 

"We  might  as  well  have  kept  her  with  us,  those  few 
hours  more,"  thought  Father. 

"Let's  ride  into  Bakerstown,  Stafford.  You've  got  to  set 
up  the  Clarion  to-day.  I'll  give  you  a  hand  at  it." 

Father  said  nothing.  They  rode  silently  into  the  village, 
towards  the  little  Clarion  office. 

Something  queer  about  the  building  caught  Mr.  Lin- 
coln's eye. 

"What  in  the  nation — why,  yonder  stands  Jo  Vanny's 
gold  chariot,  and  his  ponies!  He  must  have  taken  Rich  and 
Mercy  into  Springfield,  just  as  I  told  him  to,  then   he's 


364  THE    FATHER 

driven  back  this  way.  And  stopped  at  the  Clarion.  Or 
else " 

He  halted.  Father  did  not  say  one  word.  For  somehow 
Father  knew. 

Mr.  Lincoln  seized  the  latch.  Then  he  dodged  back.  He 
dodged  just  in  time. 

The  door  had  been  lifted  off  its  hinges,  then  poised  so 
that  at  a  touch  it  would  fall  outward  and  crash  on  whoever 
tried  to  enter. 

The  two  men  picked  it  up  and  shoved  it  aside.  Still  silent, 
they  looked  in. 

The  office  was  a  wreck.  Chairs,  tables,  stove,  books,  all 
were  chopped  and  broken  and  torn,  then  piled  in  a  heap  in 
the  middle  of  the  hacked  and  splintered  floor.  The  little 
press  was  damaged  past  repair.  Axes  and  mauls  had  left 
it  only  a  pile  of  ruin.  The  windows  were  broken,  the  very 
walls  were  slashed  and  torn.  And  on  that  heap  of  de- 
struction, there  lay  another,  smaller  heap:  a  little  crumpled 
bundle. 

Even  as  he  bent  over  that  moveless  little  heap,  Father 
knew. 

"Jo  Vanny!  Speak  to  me!  Tell  me " 

Now  you  would  have  said  that  Jo  Vanny  would  never 
speak  again,  he  lay  so  lax  and  gray  and  lifeless.  But  at 
Father's  voice  he  roused  himself  with  a  cruel  effort.  He 
lifted  his  heavy  eyes.  Almost  he  tried  to  smile. 

"I  take  them,"  he  whispered.  "All  safe.  I  drive  back. 
Men  here.  I  try  hard  to  save " 

"Jo  Vanny,  what  possessed  you!  You  faced  that  mob, 
you  gave  up  your  life  for  my  press " 

Jo  Vanny  smiled,  a  queer  little  gratified  smile. 

"Me,  I  push  him.  Make  him  go  drown.  Long  time 
ago " 

"Push  who?  For  God's  sake,  Jo  Vanny " 


THE    FATHER  365 

"Freder-ique.  He  like  very  much  hurt  Mercy.  I  drive 
by  river.  He  try  swim  out.  I  push  him  back " 

Poor  little  Jo  Vanny!  Lucky  little  Jo  Vanny!  He  had 
prospered  at  his  appointed  task,  he  had  paid  his  debts,  he  had 
paid  his  greatest  debt  of  all,  his  debt  of  love.  For  he  had 
lifted  the  heaviest  of  all  burdens  from  Father's  tired  shoul- 
ders. Oh,  lucky  little  Jo  Vanny! 

"Greater  love  hath  no  man "  said  Father  under  his 

breath.  Then  he  choked.  Mr.  Lincoln  tried  to  say  some- 
thing. But  he  choked,  too. 

They  laid  Jo  Vanny  away  with  his  broken  violin  beside 
him.  All  the  music  was  smashed  out  of  that  violin.  All  the 
music  and  the  courage  and  the  maddening  heedlessness  and 
the  white  shining  gratitude  were  smashed  out  of  Jo  Vanny, 
too.  But  he  had  lived  to  pay  his  debts,  he  had  paid  his 
greatest  debt  of  all.  Lucky  little  Jo  Vanny! 

"No  use  trying  to  patch  up  this  press.  No  use  whatever." 

Father  stood  on  the  broken  door-stone.  He  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  had  finished  listing  the  destruction.  It  had  not 
taken  long. 

Mr.  Lincoln  straightened  his  bent  shoulders  and  stared 
away  at  the  rippling  green  of  the  prairie,  the  rippling  blue 
of  the  sky. 

"Reckon  you're  right.  Well,  let's  see  what  we  can  do 
about  another  press,  long  as  this  one  is  done  for." 

"No  use  trying  for  a  new  one  now,  Mr.  Lincoln.  I'm 
owing  everybody.  No  chance." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  But  I  do  know  that  you're 
too  tired  to  plan.  Go  home,  Stafford,  and  get  some  sleep. 
I'll  ride  over  late  this  afternoon  and  then  we'll  thresh  this 
out." 

Father  went  home  obediently.  He  was  too  dead   with 


366  THE    FATHER 

weariness  to  think,  to  plan.  He  slept  for  heavy  hours.  He 
ate,  listlessly.  He  dragged  around  the  farm  doing  odds 
and  ends  of  chores,  while  the  little  boys,  lonesome  and 
fractious  without  their  sister,  trailed  after  him.  For  him- 
self, he  did  not  miss  Mercy.  Not  yet.  That  loneliness  was 
yet  to  come. 

When  he  crept  indoors  again,  Aunty  was  waiting.  To 
her  alone  he  told  of  the  wreck  of  his  office.  She  listened, 
without  comment.  When  he  had  done,  she  spoke. 

"John,  I  can't  help  much.  But  I  can  take  one  load  off 
your  mind."  Her  worn  old  face  quivered.  "And  that's 
myself.  I'm  going  to  take  Cyrus  and  go  back  east." 

"Why,  Aunty " 

"No,  don't  interrupt  me.  I  came  out  with  you  feeling 
sure  and  certain  that  I  would  be  a  help.  But  all  I  can  do  is 
to  lop  around  and  be  a  pester  and  a  hindrance." 

Father  tried  to  protest.  Aunty  shook  her  head.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  now.  The  difficult  tears  of  tired  old 
age. 

"Last  week,  my  interest  money  came.  There's  enough  to 
take  me  back  to  Green  River.  I'll  take  the  little  boys  with 
me.  I  can  keep  'em  for  a  year,  while  you  get  a  fresh  start. 
You  see 

"John,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 
I've  been  deceiving  you,  right  along.  For  I  have  been  an 
untruthful  woman.  For  years  and  years.  I've  let  you  think 
I  was  seventy-four,  going  on  seventy-five.  But  right  now, 
I'm  eighty.  Going  on  eight-one.  I — well.  I've  got  so  used 
to  saying  seventy-four,  I've  pretty  nigh  believed  it  myself. 
But  there's  a  master  difference  when  you  get  to  eighty, 
John.  You  feel  like  you'd  ought  to  settle  down.  You  get 
kind  of  tired.  So  I  want  to  go  back  home.  Go  back  and 
stay." 


THE    FATHER  367 

After  a  few  hours,  Mr.  Lincoln  came.  He  was  all  agog 
with  plans.  But  Father  checked  him. 

"I'm  going  to  sell  my  farm,  and  buy  another  press. 
With  my  own  money,  Mr.  Lincoln.  And  keep  right  on." 

"But  your  little  boys?" 

"They  are  going  back  east.  With  Aunt  Celestia."  For 
one  moment  the  desolation  of  the  coming  days  struck  down 
upon  him.  "I'll  rent  a  room  in  Bakerstown  for  myself  and 
keep  the  Clarion  going.  I  have  accomplished  nothing,  so 
far,  but  maybe  I  will  win  over  one  man,  make  one  con- 
vert, before  they  kick  me  out." 

Mr.  Lincoln  stood  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other.  He 
looked  half-defiant,  half-abashed. 

"H'm.  If  you're  so  set  on  winning  one  convert  to  your 
standard,  then  listen.  You've  got  one  now.  That's  myself." 

"You?  You  mean  to  tell  me  that?  You're  willing  to 
agree  with  me?" 

"I  don't  go  so  far  as  to  say,  willing."  Mr.  Lincoln 
shifted  again  to  the  other  foot.  He  was  embarrassed,  he 
was  trying  to  pass  this  off  as  a  joke.  But  under  the  joke 
you  could  see  that  he  was  in  deadly  earnest.  "You've  got 
me  licked,  Stafford.  I'm  not  wishful  to  come  over  to  your 
side,  but  I've  got  to.  You've  never  once  let  up  on  me. 
You've  pushed  and  prodded  and  kicked  and  shoved.  When 
I've  tried  to  argue,  you've  cut  the  ground  from  under  my 
feet.  You've  made  me  open  my  eyes  and  see.  By  George, 
sometimes  I  wish  you  had  let  me  alone.  It's  a  heap  more 
comfortable  to  stay  blind.  Even  the  children  have  fought 
for  you.  Remember  the  night  that  Thomas  gave  me  that 
clue — the  house  divided?  Yes,  I'm  right  with  you,  from 
now  on.  But  don't  pride  yourself  too  much.  As  conquests 
go,  I'm  mighty  small  potatoes.  A  dumb  old  backwoods 
lawyer  like  me." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  tell  me  this."  Father  spoke  me- 


368  THE    FATHER 

chanically.  "It  is  an  encouragement.  The  greatest  en- 
couragement you  could  give  me." 

"Well,"  Mr.  Lincoln  reached  for  his  tall  hat,  crammed 
the  roll  of  papers  in  securely.  "I'm  due  at  Carlinville 
to-night.  Remember,  whenever  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you, 
you're  to  let  me  know." 

He  gave  Father's  hand  a  hard  grip  and  was  gone. 

Father  sat  there  a  long  time.  The  house  was  very  quiet. 
Long  gold  shadows  were  deepening  across  the  prairie  when 
at  last  he  roused  himself. 

"It  was  good  of  Mr.  Lincoln  to  tell  me  that.  And  I'm 
thankful  if  I  have  helped  him  to  see.  Although  I  can't 
help  wishing  that  my  work  had  brought  me  a  more  efficient 
man.  Mr.  Lincoln  is  too  old  to  accomplish  much.  Too  old, 
and  too  disheartened.  If  only  I  had  managed  to  convince  a 
younger  man,  a  man  with  spirit,  energy,  enthusiasm!  Yet 
he  may  prove  to  be  of  some  use.  You  never  can  tell." 

Then  Father  forgot  about  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  forgot  his 
own  long  weary  toil,  his  crushing  anxieties,  his  bitter  fail- 
ures. 

A  long  minute,  he  sat,  eyes  closed,  his  tired  head  bent. 
Presently  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  some- 
thing, very  gently.  He  need  not  look  to  see  that  which  lay 
beneath  his  hand.  A  warm  sleepy  roll  of  yellow  flannel. 
From  one  end  of  that  roll  depended  a  small  red  scalp* 
lock.  From  the  other  hung  two  bright-red  flatiron  feet. 


THE    END 


THE 

JOHN    DAY 


COMPANY 

INC. 


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